


Solid State

by Miss_Gems



Category: Diablo (Video Game), Diablo II, Diablo III
Genre: 'Hey Tyrael look what I got!', Anatomy books, Being mortal is complicated, Blood, Broken Bones, Death, During a time period where an angel messed around with Death, Family, Fluff, Gen, Greyhollow time, He's been looking for an excuse to call that lich up for like a month now, Head trauma, Ho-boy, I do not remember what the plan was here, I forgot about it until now, Inhuman people doing inhuman things, It does provide a timeline where Rathma didn't disappear off the face of Sanctuary, Kalan has himself a little cameo, Necromancy, Nephalem Nesting Habits, Rathma has a hornlo, Rathma in D3, So what the actual hell was he Doing that whole time?, Sometimes bonding with ur bone-nephew requires a little bit of unpleasant reading, Specifically RoS, Spirits, TFW ur nephew has weird pets, TFW ya wake up one day and your whole world has been thrown on its head, Takes place during RoS, This all started bcuz it MIGHT be Rathma in the D4 trailer, This does not answer that question, This fic 180s between horror-violence and fluff for days, This is that but backwards, Tyrael was perhaps better off not seeing a dissected arm, Violence, You ever pick something up, and Tyrael deals with that, and all the ick you might find in one, and its mush?, and listen, expecting it to be solid, if that Mofo is alive in D4, oh well, pandemonium, social-dynamics, the thing that his whole character is all about, then he was alive during D3, this got bigger than I anticipated, whoops, ya know
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-08-03
Updated: 2020-11-27
Packaged: 2021-03-06 05:53:54
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 40
Words: 34,821
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25688389
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Miss_Gems/pseuds/Miss_Gems
Summary: There were some things Tyrael just hadn't anticipated when he'd thrown down his wings.
Comments: 64
Kudos: 24





	1. Humans

**Author's Note:**

> Small thing. Angels are being of light, and able to change their forms at will. Humans are...not.

No one had bothered to ask Tyrael what the strangest thing about becoming mortal was. It was a shame, since he had an answer ready to go. 

Humans were solid. 

An adult human’s limbs were a set length and number, their skin stayed the same consistency unless externally altered. They were stuck with two eyes, and a permanent mouth. They could not fly up into the sky even if they wanted to, for wings had not been included in the set of limbs they were born with. 

Though he felt silly about it now, Tyrael had not noticed this before. He had assumed that mortals were just...smaller, denser angels. Surely something that  _ came _ from an angel would  _ behave _ like an angel too?

Tyrael supposed the solidness of the humans came from demons in some way. 

Except - well, even stronger demons were able to alter their forms - albeit not with as much fluidity as an angel. It made little sense to him. 

What irritated him, however, was not that he didn’t understand. It was that everyone assumed that he  _ should _ understand. 

Most seemed to believe that he’d spent so much time among humans already. Honestly, it was a little insulting. In his previous missions to Sanctuary, Tyrael had maintained as little contact as angelically possible. He had interfered, yes, but he’d been  _ careful _ with his interference. He’d been professional.

He had only encountered a select few humans since the conclusion of the Sin War. The core Horadrim, the heroes who had slain Mephisto, Diablo and Baal, and perhaps one or two others over time. 

He had not immersed himself in their society. The only ones he ever spoke to were either mages or warriors! (And, as he’d discovered, they were not a good medium to judge the rest of Sanctuary on.)

Even with them, he’d kept his distance. Kept his curiosities to himself. 

Since his fall upon Sanctuary, Tyrael frequently found himself wishing for his brother. Inarius had been there from the start, witnessed the Nephalem rise and fall and evolve into what they were today. Who better to explain mortality to an angel than the angel who created mortality? 


	2. Firstborn

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The old Nephalem were all dead. Everyone knew this.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Did y'all really think I could resist sticking him in here.

As far as anyone had really known, the Firstborn were dead and gone, erased with the passage of time. Sure, some of their legacies remained - Corvus was just a taste of their grand architecture - but none of them had lived long past the Sin War. Sometimes Tyrael thought it was a shame none of them were here now. They had been powerful indeed, and protective of their home. But alas, they were no more.

This, it turned out, was false. 

Tyrael only discovered it was false when he came face-to-face with one of the ancients. And Rathma did not look happy to see him, not in the slightest. 

Perhaps calling the old Nephalem ‘alive’ was a stretch. He glowed with a deathly aura that clued just about anybody in on why he’d chosen now to make his presence known. Of course the King of Necromancy would step in during something as apocalyptic as an attack on Sanctuary from the Angel of Death. And of course, he was furious about it. 

Some of the fury had been directed at Tyrael, and he shuddered to think what Rathma would  _ do _ when he finally found Malthael.

At least the Neo-Nephalem were enjoying his presence. Having someone around that could explain what they were slowly becoming seemed to take a lot of their minds. Tyrael frequently found himself watching the Nephalem, both old and new, interact with each other. It fascinated him for some odd reason. 

Perhaps it was just nice to see his friends have someone to look to for guidance. Perhaps...perhaps he was slightly jealous about how easily they all fit together. 

Strange that this stranger slotted in so easily with the other mortals, where Tyrael had struggled so much. Strange that he (at best) overlooked Tyrael, who, by all accounts, was of direct relation to him. 

Tyrael decided he didn’t want to think about how much of his brother he kept seeing in Rathma. Bringing it up would not end well anyway.


	3. Nephalem

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> They're warming up to the new-old stranger.

The Neo-Nephalem, as they’d started calling themselves, wavered between interacting with their new ally, and giving him a wide berth. 

The Necromancer duo are the first, of course. After his appearance, they follow their ancient lord around like ducklings, watching his spellwork and simply listening to what he has to say. Rathma doesn’t seem to know what to do about it, and Tyrael finds it delightful in a macabre way. The other Neo-Nephalem are wary.

Eirena is the next, her heart terribly homesick for her past. Rathma mentions he’d awoken during that time period (although briefly, by his standards) and they spend hours discussing and writing down little cultural things from memory. The others discover this when they try recreating some old Kahjistani dish, and it very nearly explodes on them. Food during the Mage Clan Wars was often made with magic, which could lead to very unique tastes, and very big disasters if cooked wrong. 

They bring Myriam in on it the next time, and it goes much smoother. 

The Crusader dubiously tries to keep her distance. Black magic makes her wary, but even she can’t help but be curious. She watches from afar, and Tyrael finds himself gently encouraging her forward. (His excuse being that, well, Rathma was a studious type who alluded to collecting books over the years, perhaps he’d found some Crusader tomes?) That particular reasoning has both Crusader, Templar, Lorath, and even their Wizard pestering the ancient about his studies, and Rathma squinting over at Tyrael in a way that he can’t quite interpret. 

Rathma off-handedly mentions how much of “pig-headed ox” Bul-Kathos was, and instantly has the resident Barbarian’s undivided attention. They wander off somewhere private, and Tyrael later learns they’d been discussing and conducting old tribal ceremonies of grieving and death. 

Tyrael overhears the discussion between Rathma and their arbalist duo by mistake. He’s about to walk away when he hears his brother’s name mentioned. 

Given how much disdain Rathma seemed to hold for his parents Tyrael would not have suspected him of comforting someone who had lost theirs. But evidently, that’s what’s happening. The unlikely trio are perched high up on one side of the broken cathedral, talking softly. Tyrael leaves them to it. 

He supposes he should be happy that there is at least something positive happening in Westmarch.

He can’t help but feel left out though. 


	4. Companionship

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Angels are social creatures, and being a one-of-a-kind gets lonely sometimes.

Tyrael had not realized how much he enjoyed his species’ company until he couldn’t have it anymore. It struck him as terribly strange and ironic that becoming a mortal was what had clued him in to how much he’d loved being an angel. 

No one really thought of angels as being social creatures. Foolish thinking he now knew.

He had relied on the other councilors, and the members of his aspect, for comfort and companionship. This, he now recognized. Watching the true-mortals interact with one-another only cemented this for him.

It was all giving him a terrible heartache. He missed his home, and his people. He had missed his brother for so many centuries - he could freely admit this now. He missed his lieutenant. He missed what they’d all had... _ before _ . 

Perhaps it was simply a mortal thing to recognize longing for what it was. Perhaps he hadn’t  _ always _ felt this way...except he had, hadn’t he? The bigger the divide in the council grew, the more wrong something had felt. The longer he was away on Sanctuary, the more eager he’d always been to return to the Courts of Justice. 

Maybe his mortal heart was simply better at recognizing this. Maybe he’d just been given the context he needed to know what was wrong. 

Of course, he had his companions. They accepted him, trusted him, wanted to be around him (or so he viciously hoped). They were his people now, and it would have to be enough because there was no way he could go back after all this. After Diablo. After Malthael. 

There was also the matter of his ‘nephew’ (not that he thought he could get away with calling Rathma such out loud.) 

Every instinct in him, both angelic and mortal, said that he was family. Nevermind that he could still sense the familiar traces of resonance in the ancient Nephalem, he  _ acted _ very much like his father at times. (Saying this would be a one-way-ticket to Malthael’s doorstep, he was sure.) Rathma was undeniably Inarius’s son, and as far as Tyrael knew, this was the main source of trouble between them. 

He couldn’t know the particulars of that relationship, but he remembered well that Rathma had been there, fighting to tear his father down, fighting angels and demons alike. He remembered the blankness on his face when watching Mephisto take Inarius away. 

There was already bad blood between them, and they’d only just properly met. Perhaps he was better suited looking for companionship elsewhere.


	5. Shift

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Maybe the Nephalem weren't so solid after all. 
> 
> Also the gang beats up Adria off-screen.

Sometimes Tyrael thought he saw the Nephalem that called himself Rathma... _ shift _ , for lack of a better word. It could’ve easily been a trick of the cloak he wore, which was ever-moving and twisting about it’s master’s shoulders. 

It wasn’t easy to try and confirm. Rathma avoided him as much as he could, to the point of straight up walking away whenever Tyrael attempted to speak with him. Tyrael did not understand what he’d done to earn this snubbing of his presence, but there wasn’t time to look into it. 

The Nephalem, both old and new, journeyed to the marshes. As they left, Tyrael thought he saw  his Rathma change _something_ in himself . Was he taller now? Or perhaps shorts... He couldn’t be sure though. 

Those who went on the quest (for vengeance, for justice, oh, would that Tyrael still stood as such and he might've gone with them, for Leah's sake-) discovered quickly what their strange new companion could do. His magic was more than necromancy, more than magic really. It was simply a force of nature.

They dug through the ruins of Corvus. Tyrael couldn’t have known how proud the ancient was to see the Neo-Nephalem following in their ancestor’s footprints, igniting beacons and channeling their powers. He wasn’t there to see when the old Nephalem sprouted wings and took off into the sky for a better vantage point. 

Corvus itself was dank and dusty and forgotten, and in all actuality Rathma had never once been inside. He could read the guides though, and much of their exploration was filled with explanations and discussion of the words carved into the walls. The place was a relic, and still held its power and knowledge. 

Adria's blood golems were simple work for the trio of necromancers. The rest of the Neo-Nephalem followed, and Adria's death drew near. 

Lorath came to Tyrael after Corvus with tales of blood and witches and visions of Pandemonium - of an angel mad with death - and of a Nephalem whose form was ever-shifting. Who changed himself to better suit whatever situation was at hand. There were whispers among the others now, wonderings of whether any mortal could change themselves, as the ancient Nephalem did. 

Tyrael had been right. Mortals were not so solid after all.

It made much more sense - after all, mortals were those that could  _ choose _ their destinies. Choosing their bodies was simply...logical. The blend of demon and angel _was_ just as even than he'd thought it should be. Although...he supposed it could be a trait unique to Rathma himself (it was not as though he had any others to compare him to). Inarius had been gifted when it came to altering his own appearance, perhaps his offspring had inherited this?

There would be precious little time to ask him about it.They were to go to Heaven, and Tyrael thought he’d rather bring anyone else into those gilded halls with warrior-angels and bright lights and  _ Imperius _ . 

Would speaking with him now distract Rathma? Or would it simply irritate him? 

There was a very real chance that none of them were coming back alive from Pandemonium. If Tyrael wanted answers, he had to ask his questions soon. (No matter that he may only have his answers for hours before the end, but...) 


	6. Less Solid

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Wrangling an answer out of his nephew could be a trial sometimes. If said nephew decided to speak at all.

“You are less solid.” 

It took a force of will Rathma hadn’t been certain he’d possessed to contain a mighty groan of frustration. He took a moment to compose himself, before turning to face the speaker. 

Now, he was not fond of speaking to Tyrael on most days. Any days, really. He’d gotten the sense that the angel - man - man-angel (oh, his status made something in Rathma’s gut  _ clench _ ) wanted something from him. Knowledge? Probably. A connection? Apparently. 

He still found Tyrael’s presence unnerving at best, and horrifying at worst. Sure, centuries had gone by as he’d slept, and apparently the Archangel of Justice had been on a personal mission to aid humanity to the best of his ability. But the last time Rathma had encountered him, the angel had been trying to destroy him and all he’d cared about. It had been a miracle that Tyrael changed his mind at the last moment, and Rathma was not a firm believer in miracles. 

Whether or not he still feared the angel was debatable. A very long portion of his life had been spent dreading the possibility of his presence. Inarius had feared him, Trag’Oul had feared him, and Rathma had followed suit. 

There had been no reason to ever believe that Tyrael wouldn’t incinerate him on sight. 

Rathma had thought he’d done a good job of discouraging Tyrael’s attempts at  _ connecting _ . They were not family, they would never  _ be _ family, and outside of business, Rathma wanted nothing to do with the angel-man. He’d shut down previous attempts flatly. Tyrael had seemed to get the message. 

Except apparently he hadn’t, and here he was coming up to Rathma with statements like... _ that _ . What was that even supposed to mean? 

“Excuse you?” Rathma twisted his head around - all the way around - to stare down at Tyrael behind him. His tail thumped against the cobbled flooring and the cloak floofed itself up to appear bigger. 

Tyrael blinked. Eye-balled his neck. Gestured at him vaguely.

“That’s exactly what I mean.” He said, waving a hand. “You are-  _ flexible _ . Fluid. Not solid.” 

“No o _ ooo? _ ” Rathma drew out the syllable. What in the seven hells was the angel on about? “Mortals are a delicate blend of fluids and solids. And I, in my entirety, am not a fluid.”

Tyrael looked frustrated. Glanced around, seemed to be thinking. Rathma waited, impatiently, and wondered why he was bothering. He didn't like conversations with most, and liked conversations with Tyrael the least. Perhaps the questions were simply...interesting. Curious. Strange. 

“Not that- not the state of matter.” He began again. “Your form- your body- it’s not stuck in one place.” Rathma did his very best to convey how much he had no idea what Tyrael was talking about with a glare. Tyrael apparently got the message, and went back to the drawing board. 

After a moment during which Rathma seriously considered just walking away, Tyrael looked up again.

“Angels can change form at will. During my time on Sanctuary, and as a mortal, I discovered that- well, mortals cannot. They’re stuck.” Tyrael patted his arms and legs. “They only get one set, and they cannot change this. Except...you can.” He gestured at Rathma again. 

Rathma blinked once. Twice. Shuffled his hooves till he was fully facing the angel. 

“...Most Nephalem can. Could.” He offered. Tyrael looked surprised and delighted by this information. Rathma did not cringe, but his mouth was pursed in a thin line.  Before he could ask another question, Rathma had spun around to stalk away once more. 

“Why can humans not?” Tyrael called at the retreating figure’s back.

“Worldstone!” came the irritable reply. Rubbing his chin, Tyrael wondered if that meant that, now that the stone was gone, humans would be less solid once more. 


	7. Dusty

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Pandemonium is really quite a drab place. Pandemonium Fortress is really quite awful.

Pandemonium was grayer than any of them anticipated. Dustier. Rathma likened it to an abandoned tomb, and no one was surprised when he made that comparison. 

The ground was unstable and ashen, but that had not stopped them from tearing out across it. It _had_ almost taken a few of them careening to their deaths into the yellowy swirl of energy below. Quick thinking and their newly manifesting wings had taken care of that. 

It was jarring, going from the overwhelming brightness of the Heavens to this drab place. At least there was _life_ in Heaven. Here there seemed to only be decay. 

Everyone was in a sour mood by now, and the clock was ticking. 

There had been a small minute where they all thought Rathma was going to get into a no-holds-barred, all out fight to the death with Imperius. If they were not in such a rush, it most certainly would have happened. Imperius wanted to. Rathma wanted to. Everyone else was at the least curious to see who would win, and at most egging their ancient companion on. 

Perhaps later, when Malthael wasn’t looming over their heads. There’d be plenty of time to put each other in their places afterwards. 

The things they found in Pandemonium disgusted just about everyone. Demons and angels alike imprisoned for eternity. Angels abandoned on the fields, no longer aware of their surroundings. The _corpses_ simply left to petrify. (Did no one in Heaven _grieve?_ Even if they did there would be no closure. _)_

It felt like an eternity wandering the dusty plains. Reluctantly, they’d split up. Two runes, two groups. Each returned with horror-stories of the nightmare-fuel they’d encountered. At least finding each other had been a simple matter - footprints were easily visible, and did not fade no matter how much time had passed. 

They stuck together, instinctively closing ranks likes a herd of elk facing a pack of wolves. 

Ramming the door down while perched on top of the Ram itself was not ideal, but not many of them could sustain flight at that juncture. They’d had little choice but to battle to protect it, to get into the bloody fortress. Several of them had nearly been flung from it’s steely hull, and no one wanted to count the number of miracles that kept everyone aboard. 

Rathma had badly wanted to ask Tyrael what the point of losing one’s wings was, but was too preoccupied with keeping the angel from plummeting to his death. Humanity had come with a loss of agility, and he was clearly still not used to his mortal limbs. Rathma compensated accordingly. 

No one mentioned the save, or the way the ancient Nephalem stuck near to an angel he supposedly hated. This was good, because he wouldn’t have known what to say or do about it. Probably push the damned angel off the nearest tall-walkway (this was a lie. After all the effort he’d put into keeping the bastard alive, Rathma wasn’t about to let him stumble into mortal peril all over again.)

Something about their trials in Pandemonium had apparently softened the old Nephalem to his uncle’s presence.

They all stormed through Pandemonium Fortress, cutting down the twisted things that had once been angels. Its halls were frigid and lifeless. Dense fog hung wherever they looked, and masked the monstrous angels coming to try and tear them apart. They stuck close, and lashed out at anything that came at them. 

The necromancers at least seemed somewhat more comfortable. Having them along became a boon when the spirits of their order, and all those lost readily presented themselves to the still-living mortals. 

While the Neo-Nephalem gained their powers, Tyrael watched curiously as Rathma spoke quietly with a spirit that seemed... familiar. A short man, thin yet athletic in build, plain of face, and adorned in shadowy garbs that looked very much like what Rathma himself wore. The two briefly touched hands, and the spirit was gone, disappearing into the swirling mass of humanity before them. 

Turning around, Rathma and Tyrael’s eyes met. The Nephalem did not speak, and his face was blanker than ever. Around his head, the crown of horns gleamed brightly as they sometimes did. 

Tyrael thought it might have meant the Nephalem was upset. Perhaps he’d ask about it later.

The group forged ahead. They’d become an indomitable force, their shared experiences and humanity bonding them together tightly. And among them, Rathma and Tyrael had seemingly balanced one-another out. No one mentioned how seamlessly they were able to do battle together. Spell-caster and swordsman, Death and Justice. Around them, a horde of some of the most powerful beings in creation at that time.

Malthael must have known they were there. Either he felt he was so strong that he need not face them himself...or, like Inarius had been so many years before, he was afraid of the mortals coming for him. 


	8. Death

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The humans have themselves their second Battle of a Lifetime.

Malthael was, perhaps, Rathma’s second worst nightmare coming true (the first being...well actually it was not the second, or even the third. He had too many nightmares.) The angel sucked upon the power of Death without the consideration for what it  _ meant _ . He had no idea what he was doing with himself, or the souls (there was so  _ much _ one could do with that much soul-energy - and he was merely here to  _ destroy them all _ -). His behavior was erratic and crude. Did he know that he was suckling upon the very veins of life? Likely not. Rathma was rather certain the angel only saw the souls as a means to an end. A power source. 

Wisdom indeed. 

Unfortunately, fighting the angel left little room for insulting his practices and how rudimentary they were. When he had breath, it was used for words of power. Around him, the _(_ smaller-weaker-fragile _-strong)_ Neo-Nephalem darted about. They'd come a long way, but had farther to go for something like the Angel of Death. All together, they had a chance - all together, they’d defeated Diablo after all. But they were not all together here. 

Malthael was quick, he was strong, but Rathma knew his kind well. Death was  _ his _ wheelhouse, the Angel was merely a guest. 

A foolish guest too. Malthael had no idea that there were other Neo-Nephalem about, so focused on the opponents in front of him. Rathma wondered if he’d always been this narrow-minded, or if there was something else at play here. It seemed unlikely that  _ this _ was what had out-thought and out-maneuvered the likes of The Three for so long. It seemed...very much like what had become of his father. Were angels simply fated for insanity? Perhaps they couldn't handle any kind of power.

Perhaps he'd bring it up with Tyrael, if they lived. Right now was really not the time for musings.

They tore into one another. Malthael was bigger, Rathma was nimbler. They drew on the same power-source, and the souls of the Dead were not willingly obeying the angel. Around them, arcane and arrows lit up the air in violent colors. There were shouts and curses and spell-words thrown about, as everyone fought for their lives. One slip-up meant Death - permanent Death, and their soul would go to fuel the monstrous angel that they opposed. 

How long could they do this? The dance of blades and power and Death? 

Forever, presumably, or until someone simply dropped. 

They all recognized this flaw in the battle, all knew the match was even. If one of them fell, they all went down. They needed only take down one angel, but Malthael had decided not to take chances...

Except. 

Except he’d already given the Neo-Nephalem all the chance they needed to steal the Black-soulstone out from under him. As one group had fought him and kept his attention, the rest had torn through the fortress until they'd reached the Black Soulstone, resting in the chamber where the Worldstone had one lain.

Rathma cackled in the angel’s face, through broken and bleeding teeth, and was nearly cleaved in two for it. (Since when were shotels cleavers? He’d have to study those blades later…)

Without the stone to contain the souls, it was simple work for Rathma’s children - the Priests, the Chosen, call them what you like - to dismiss the multitude of ruined lives. As they escaped into eternity, they took Malthael’s power with them. His scream of rage was  _ beautiful _ (if shrieky and awful) to hear.

Malthael was alone then. No souls to draw on, no Soulstone to consume, and a host of angry mortals arrayed against him. He did not willingly surrender, and Rathma was not the slightest bit surprised. He was still a vicious opponent, and now he was _angry_. The fury he flung at his adversaries should have killed them all, but they miraculously kept surviving. Kept coming to one-another's aide. Kept fighting back. 

They were winning now. Slowly. They were bleeding. They were battered. There was no retreat though, no option but to keep on fighting, fight until Malthael was dead or surrendered. 

In the end it was not Rathma nor the Neo-Nephalem that felled him. 

That honor went to Imperius. 


	9. Sunrise

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Much ado about the Black Soulston.

Rathma was not willing to wait when it came to the Black Soulstone. 

“The Council will want to have a say…” Tyrael had half-heartedly argued. It was honestly more of a warning than an argument. 

“I care not what the  _ Council _ wants.” Rathma had sneered, horns and eyes flashing. “They had their chance to take care of it, and from what you said, nearly corrupted themselves in the process.” 

The Neo-Nephalem were looking from one speaker to the other in apparent fascination. All of them were tired, and sore, and still reeling from the events in Pandemonium Fortress. Once they’d gotten possession of the Stone, they had all been prepared to throw themselves at Malthael, and bring him down at any cost. 

No one was totally sure how to feel about Imperius’s intervention. The Archangel of Valor had made it clear that he wanted no part in taking down his former leader. Yet, at the last moments, it had been he who struck down the Angel of Death. Malthael might have been able to fight through the combined might of the mortals, ragged as they were. He had not been able to stand against a fresh Imperius. 

Rathma seemed convinced that Imperius had only acted in order to save Malthael. After all, the angel was now in Heaven’ custody. There would likely be a trial, according to Tyrael, and he wondered how much of a farce this one would be. 

But presently, they had bigger things to worry about: namely, what to do with the Black Soulstone.

“It should be hidden, as we had originally intended.” Lorath put forth. “Somewhere it can’t be found...somewhere unreachable.” There was a chorus of agreements from the assorted Neo-Nephalem, and even Rathma looked thoughtful. His tail slapped the ground once, and flicked from side to side.

“...I’m not sure hiding it on Sanctuary was the right move.” Tyrael quietly admitted. “After all the effort we went through in getting it, the blasted thing was lost almost immediately.” One did not need Rathma’s empathy to know how frustrated Tyrael was over this. He could feel it more pronounced though, feel the sensations as if they were his own. 

“There must be somewhere else!” Someone in the crowd put forth.

“It should be guarded, wherever it goes.” Was the low response of the Demon Hunter. 

“Could your order protect it?” Lorath asked. There was an exchanging of glances, before the hunter let out a sigh.

“Perhaps, but...I don’t know if my order still stands.” Everyone stiffened, as though realizing for the first time that it would be the same wherever they went. Who knew how many were left?

“Tyrael is right.” Rathma was making a distinctly sour face at agreeing with the man-angel. “It shall not remain upon Sanctuary.” And everyone burst out with exclamations and questions at that. 

“But it must be protected!”

“You just said the Heavens couldn’t have it…”

“Where then? Pandemonium? You’re joking!” 

Rathma patiently waited for everyone to settle down. 

“No, it does not need a guard.” He stated, and his glare shut down any immediate arguments. “The less who know of its location, the less likely someone is to learn of it and try and take it. ...I know where it can be hidden. Not upon Sanctuary, not in Pandemonium, and certainly not in the Heavens.” 

“All that’s left is Hell…” Someone muttered, and let out a yelp when they were punched in the arm. Rathma sighed through his nose, and tilted his head up. The sun was starting to rise, but the stars were still visible. The moon was little more than a sliver.

“With your permission,” He looked to the group. “I know where I will hide it. It is nearly unreachable, and once hidden I will destroy the means of getting to its location.” 

More arguments broke out. Fists were shaken, words were shouted. It took them all morning to come to an agreement. Truth of the matter was though, no one else had a good idea of what to do with it, and were eager to be done with the whole matter. They would not admit it, but truthfully having someone else show up to deal with the Black Soulstone was a relief. 

Tyrael was the most uncertain, but could not think of a better alternative. And...he was not sure what Rathma would do if he tried to take the Soulstone. They had started warming up to one another over the trials of Pandemonium, but that did not mean the old Nephalem wouldn’t change gears if he thought Tyrael was trying to take the stone for himself. A fight with Rathma was not worth possession of the stone.

In the end, everyone, even Tyrael, gave their assent. And Rathma vanished into the rising sun.


	10. Judge

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> It's hard to let go of the past when it wasn't really so long ago.

It was really only a matter of time before someone cracked and asked about the apparent feud between Rathma and Tyrael. “Why do you hate Tyrael?” 

The question, unsurprisingly, came from Lorath. Rathma huffed a sigh through his nose, and closed his book. He turned to Lorath fully, and tilted his head. The young man licked his lips. 

“He seems rather upset about it.” Lorath continued. “I mean- he acknowledges that it’s how you feel, and you’re entitled to that, but-”

“First, I don’t hate him. I mistrust him. Second, he tried to kill me.” Rathma’s flat voice cut in. He gave Lorath a look when the man opened his mouth to refute that statement. “He tried to kill everyone, and came very close to succeeding.”

“But- Judgement Day-”

“Was a miracle that no one expected.” Sighing, the ancient set his book down and shifted in his seat. “Understand, Lorath, that everyone was prepared for the end that day. Did Tyrael change his mind? Yes. After nearly wiping out the planet and attempting to murder several of the most important peope in our history, yes. And someone had to die for him to do it.” 

Rathma was aware that his view on things was a little bit...skewed. For everyone else, these events had been millenia ago. For him, it had been precious few years since humanity was nearly wiped out. 

“...He’s done so much for us. Sacrificed for us.” Lorath’s voice was rather small. “Surely that must count for something?”

“Perhaps. I’m not the one to come to for rights and wrongs - and apparently Tyrael isn’t either anymore.” Rathma frowned for a moment, considering. “Hm...That Tyrael never told you of his past is part of what makes me mistrust him. Personally, I would rather the angels stay out of Sanctuary - and I’ve made this no secret. If Tyrael can’t accept that I do not wish to speak with him, then that is all the more reason for me to scorn his presence.” 

It was more than most usually got out of Rathma. He was a Nephalem of few words, which, Lorath supposed, meant he felt quite deeply about this topic. 

Still. Tyrael was a friend. 

“He’s really not a threat now though.” Lorath tried.”I do believe he’s been making amends for...all that.”

“The fact that he’s related to my father does him no favors either.” Rathma responded, somewhat ignoring what the man had said. 

“Well that’s not exactly fair now is it?” Lorath was gentle with his words. 

Rathma sniffed disdainfully “Life’s not fair. Look at it this way; if Malthael turned around and said he wanted to aid humanity, would you trust him?”

“Well, no but-”

“But nothing.” There was no room for argument in Rathma’s tone, but his face softened for the young man. “Maybe Tyrael is being genuine, I’m not sure. I personally cannot trust him yet.” 

Lorath smiles, Rathma stands, takes his book, and they both know the conversation is over. As the ancient Nephalem stalks away, Lorath is aware enough of how he speaks and behaves to know he’d gotten him thinking. 


	11. Departure

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The gang goes their separate ways, while Tyrael and Rathma hang out in a graveyard.

With the stone hidden away and Malthael imprisoned, there was no need for them to remain together.

Slowly, they departed. 

The Wizard was first, heading to her home in Xiansai. 

“It was a mess when I left it, I imagine it’s worse now.” She had said by way of explanation. While she had often spoke down upon her home, it was still home. Accompanying her part-way would be the Crusader, Eirena and Kormac. They were heading for Caldeum. Heading that way were also Rathma’s two chosen. 

They all knew what had happened to the Necropolis. It was time to pick up the pieces. 

Not long after, both Demon Hunter and Barbarian turned to head back into the Dreadlands. 

There was an air of morbid curiosity, and desperate hope. Hope that friends and family had survived. Curiosity to see if it was so. Beneath it all was crushing dread and despair, for they who had been to the heart of the conflict knew the chances of survival. 

In the days after most had departed, Tyrael went to Rathma with questions once more. Afterall, without the Neo-Nephalem around, what reason did the Ancient Nephalem have to stick around?

“Will you sleep again?” Was his first question, blurted at the dark figure’s back. 

Rathma had turned and stared at him a long minute, almost until Tyrael began to repeat himself. “No.” Around them it was dusk, and the King of Necromancy turned about to begin his circuit of the cemeteries in Westmarch. There were still so many lost souls, and it was easier to send them on their way without too many onlookers. 

“Then, there is more to come.” Tyrael followed, idly wondering if the Nephalem would protest his presence. 

“There will always be more to come. Such is the way of things.” Rathma spoke vaguely, and Tyrael sensed an uphill battle for information here.   
  
“You awaken in times of major strife. Then you sleep again.” Tyrael stated what he’d heard from the others. When Rathma did not dissent, he continued on. “If you will not sleep, then it is still a time of strife.” 

A snort was his response this time. “Look around Tyrael. Does this look like peace to you?” They had entered Briarthorn cemetery. Graves everywhere were upturned, urns and headstones broken, ashes scattered. There were more bones than anyone really knew what to do with but pile them up more or less out of the way. 

Tyrael suppressed a grumble of annoyance. “I think you know what I mean.” 

“I think you should speak plainly if you want plain answers.” Rathma gestured to one pile, and spoke several words of power. It began to separate itself. Thankfully, there didn’t seem to be anyone around to witness the grisly task. 

He could not prevent the aggrieved sigh this time, and for a moment Tyrael thought he saw his dubious companion smirk. “Why are you not departing? Do you sense something coming?” He finally demanded. 

Several skeletons walked themselves back to their graves, and climbed in. 

“...I do not sense events, Tyrael. If you want to look for specifics, perhaps you should consult Myriam, or maybe Itherael.” Rathma finally offered. “I get...feelings. Sensations, urges. Something is likely coming, but I cannot tell you what.” With another wave of his hand, and a muttering of spellwork, the graves began to fill themselves once more. Soon they were smoothed over, the proper remains in place. 

As the Nephalem turned to continue his work, Tyrael couldn’t help but wonder what could be coming. He supposed he should double his efforts with the Horadrim... 

“It’s not the Horadrim you need to worry about.” Rathma absently called.”Personally I’d keep a closer eye on what your Heavens are up to.” 

“I thought you couldn’t read events.” Tyrael was not quite sure how he felt about the other’s ability to get into people’s heads. 

“I cannot.” More muttering, more skeletons dutifully trotting off to their graves. “It doesn’t take a vision to know Imperius is furious, and hurt, and probably looking for an outlet. And since we’ve robbed him of his favorite one…” Rathma raised a hand towards the moon, and Tyrael gave him a blank look. “Sanctuary would be his next target no?” 

Tyrael blinked after his companion as he moved on to the next macabre pile. He certainly didn’t want to think Imperius would attack Sanctuary, but then, he hadn’t even considered that Malthael might do so. And look what had happened there. 

“So, you will remain to fight the Heavens?” He asked quietly. 

“I’ve always been ready to do battle with your kind, Tyrael.” Rathma was blunt with his words. “You’ve never represented much more than a danger to me. But, as of right now, I’d rather try and do things diplomatically.” 

Fighting Malthael to the death had not exactly been high on his List of Great and Fun Things To Do on a Matins Morning. 

“But if it comes to that, you will.” Tyrael persisted. 

“I kicked Malthael square between the legs last week. I’ll kick Imperius too if he needs it.” The Nephalem smiled at Tyrael in a conspiratorial way. Tyrael blinked, momentarily unsettled, and shook his head. 

As Rathma continued his work, Tyrael trailing behind, the once-angel couldn’t help but marvel at how well this conversation had actually gone. Despite how much the ancient liked to talk in circles, at least he’d been civil this time. 

“It is good. Sanctuary needs its protectors right now.” Tyrael offered. Rathma gave him a long, considering look, before turning back to the next bone pile. Neither one of them spoke after this, simply accepting one-another presence. The Necromancer worked well into the night, and Tyrael simply watched, until all the empty graves had been filled. 


	12. Alone

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The Dragon was always there when he awoke. Always.

There had been one thing that Rathma had not been prepared for going into the Cycle of Sleep. 

Such magic was rare and powerful, and could not be cast upon oneself. He knew, going in, that centuries would pass between awakenings. Lifetimes, generations even. Kalan, and every one of his students, would be dead by the time he awoke. 

This, he had known. And while it had been a painful separation, it was one he’d anticipated. They had said their goodbyes, and Rathma knew where the graves were. Every awakening, he visited, and reinforced the protective wards upon their remains. He paid his respects, and remembered them all fondly.

The last of the Nephalem had developed something like a routine. Awaken, deal with whatever catastrophe had unearthed itself, visit the numerous graves he cared for, check how the Cult was doing, and instruct them on how to put him back into his slumber… Sleep. Sleep for years upon years. 

Rathma may as well have been dead during this time, and each time he awoke, he half expected to find his soul finally separated from his body. It would happen some day, he just didn’t know when. The fated day during which he should’ve moved on had long since passed. 

Now it was only a matter of time.

The faces and names and voices had long since started to blur together, but one had always been constant. Always had Trag’Oul’s familiar presence and stars welcomed him, essentially, back from the dead. No matter how many passed as he slept, the dragon lived on. No matter how much time he lost, Trag was there to catch him up. No matter what friends he made and lost, there would always be at least one. 

Mortal life was finite, and this, he expected.

Celestials though? Well, he’d always believed that was eternal.

At no point had he ever considered that he might wake up one day without Trag’Oul there to greet him. The dragon had never hinted at this possibility. 

No one even knew what had happened. The masters in his order had been just as clueless as he - hell, they’d hoped he would somehow have the answers (as if one could sleep and learn at the same time, honestly). There had been quite a shock when, just as the fated comet fell from the Heavens, Rathma himself had awoken one last time. There had been excitement, and relief, and hope. 

There had been grief, and despair. 

For all any of them knew, Trag’Oul, the Fulcrum of the Balance, was dead. There was no grave to pay respects to. 

This idea had shaken the ancient Nephalem, badly. Trag’Oul had been his entire world. Trag’Oul had been with him for what felt like his entire life, through every major and minor event. They were close, closer than breathing. 

Had Rathma worshipped him? Perhaps. He had certainly loved him, in some way. How could he not love the being that was practically a surrogate father, a best friend, and the center of all his ideals all rolled into one magnificent being? It was not a love he’d ever acknowledged, and perhaps one that he’d taken for granted. Trag had been his world. 

Inarius had once wanted all mortals to worship him as a god. But his son had already found one of his own to kneel down before.

Tyrael wanted to know why he did not sleep once more. True, there was likely danger ahead, but this was an eternal truth on Sanctuary. It stood to reason that Imperius was furious, and that nothing good would come of Malthael being simply imprisoned, not outright killed. These were things anyone could see though. Rathma had not bothered to give Tyrael the full truth, and it likely wouldn’t take long for the man-angel to realize that. 

The truth was that Rathma was afraid, truly afraid, for once in his life. The Dragon was gone. Kalan and his students were long dead, the Necropolis torn apart (his Chosen would find nobody. This, he already knew, but could not persuade them of). There was simply nothing left for him now. 

The Dragon was gone, and without him Rathma didn’t know what to do with himself anymore. 

Even if he could’ve taught someone else the necessary spellwork to put himself down once more, what was the point? When next he awoke, who's to say all of Sanctuary wouldn't have already crumbled around him? No, it was better to live out the remainder of his days, to leave the Cycle of Sleep behind.

Rathma didn’t think he’d be getting sleep of any kind for some time. He’d been rocked to his core, and he was afraid. 


	13. Settle

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Things start becoming more routine, and everyone is a little better off for it.

  
Tyrael was slowly getting used to having his nephew around. Truthfully, he had no idea where the Nephalem actually was half the time, but the other half seemed to be spent around Tyrael and the Horadrim. Rathma came and went as he pleased, whenever he pleased. 

He’d tried to find a pattern by which the Nephalem showed up, and there wasn’t one. Sometimes there was something that needed his attention, and he’d appear without fail (though he was always full of disdain and sarcasm). Sometimes he hung around for several days, simply watching the Horadrim work, or reading. More often than not, Tyrael felt like he showed himself simply so that he could critique whatever human thing Tyrael was attempting to do on any given day. 

(Rathma reminded him achingly of both Inarius and Malthael at times.)

Some of his insight was legitimately useful - things to look for that cued specific emotions, things that most humans could not consume, the myriad of problems stirring in Westmarch. A great deal of it, however, was simply commentary on his day-to-day doings. Anything from what he’d chosen to eat that morning, to how he swung El’Druin during practice, to the many, many letters that needed writing and sending. Rathma always had something to say about it.

He could be passive-aggressive at times, but when Tyrael had asked Lorath about it, the young man had not seemed worried. 

“I think he’s still not totally comfortable around you,” he’d said, “But it seems to me like he’s trying to get to know you. Albeit in a strange, awkward way.” 

Tyrael decided to accept this, and in turn, tried to get to know Rathma better. It was slow going though. Actively engaging with him had the chance of scaring him off, for lack of a better term. Another of the Horadrim likened it to adopting a stray cat. Patience was key, so she claimed. 

And so, Tyrael would acknowledge the Nephalem’s presence, and then more or less ignore him for the rest of the day. This seemed acceptable to Rathma, and he started showing up more often, and staying longer. Sometimes he’d even lend a hand with whatever it was Tyrael was doing. 

More and more, the two would spend time near each other, but not actually engaging one another. The ancient would work on whatever it was he was working on, Tyrael would work on either his books, or dealing with the Horadrim. Every so often, when Tyrael became stumped, Rathma would offer some tidbit of advice or information, and Tyrael was abruptly reminded of his head-reading ability. 

He never asked what Rathma was doing, and the King of Necromancy never bothered to tell him. Tyrael had decided that whatever it was, he probably didn’t want to know anyway. 

It had concerned him the first time Rathma disappeared for a lengthy amount of time. Tyrael had gotten used to the Nephalem’s presence almost, but at seemingly random he’d vanished for a week. 

When he came back, he was no worse for wear...and so Tyrael did not question him. He did perhaps pay far more attention to what he was doing than usual, and Rathma had simply stared at him. 

Things went back to ‘normal’ though. Gone for a day, back for a day. Tyrael’s study was quiet and empty, and then it was abruptly full of snark and that ever-twisting cloak that Rathma never took off. (He wondered if teleportation was something he could potentially master...perhaps he’d pester his nephew about it some time.)

The rest of the Horadrim were comfortable with his presence, or lack-thereof, as well. They had an easier time communicating with the old Nephalem, although several of them found him disconcerting. (“I don’t think he sleeps.” “Everyone sleeps though…””Not him.”) Rathma would occasionally spar with them or impart bits of magical knowledge, but otherwise didn’t really have much to do with the affairs of the Horadrim. 

It started to puzzle Tyrael. The old Nephalem had seemed so adverse to his presence before, and now he couldn’t seem to stay away. 

He wondered why Rathma didn’t simply return to his order, to deal with his Necromancers. That question answered itself in the form of letters from the two ‘Chosen’, who had departed for their home weeks ago. 

The Necropolis was devastated. Almost no one left, and much of its structure had collapsed.. They would attempt to rebuild...but it would take a very long time indeed. 

Tyrael felt very sure that the prospect of facing the ruins of that order must have been a terrible idea indeed for his nephew. It didn’t take an intellectual to figure out that something was very strange indeed about Rathma’s past. Tyrael distinctly remembered seeing him, arguing with him, very nearly killing him during the Time of Judgement. He remembered how old the Nephalem had been at that point, and that was several millennia ago now. 

The Necropolis must have been the last bit of familiarity on the planet for Rathma. It was where his people and culture had thrived for so long, and now it was gone. 

Abruptly, the former angel had been reminded of how he’d felt when Heaven had crumbled around him. His home, his people, everything he once knew...he had faced the prospect of its destruction, and caved beneath the horror and despair this idea brought. 

Rathma’s world was already gone. 

How long ago had the Nephalem as a civilization fallen? There were maybe two people alive in Creation who remembered, and Inarius certainly wasn’t going to answer questions any time soon. Tyrael couldn't imagine living knowing that everyone in the Heavens were dead and gone - he’d either go mad with grief or catatonic with guilt. At least there were still the humans around, but Tyrael was starting to realize just how fundamentally different a Nephalem and Human were. They were practically a different species altogether. 

For all he’d claimed otherwise, Tyrael was starting to think that Rathma was simply...wanting for someone, or something to connect with. Something to ground him to Sanctuary once more. 

Why else would he stay around the Horadrim, for whom he had no business with, and Tyrael, who he’d openly loathed the presence of? 

Come to think of it, Tyrael was even starting to wonder if the old Nephalem had actually hated him, or simply...feared him. Lorath had asked him (in halting, uncertain sentences) if he’d really tried to destroy Sanctuary so long ago, and there were very few places the young man would get that idea from. Tyrael didn’t think that Rathma was undermining him, no. The more he considered it, the more he had to admit that it would make sense for someone who had experienced Judgement Day to fear him. 

This was a distressing thought really, but at least the Ancient seemed to be coming around to him. 


	14. Modernity

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Rathma decides he is really god-damn tired, and its time for retirement.

  
The Horadrim were a strange group. They almost reminded him of the Edyrem at times, and of Kalan and his group of acolytes at others. They were a daring bunch, willing to give up whatever lives they’d lived in order to serve and protect their world. All at the behest of an Angel. 

They were...charming.

Despite himself, Rathma thought he was starting to like them. It certainly helped that they didn’t scream whenever he dropped from the ceiling (well. Not anymore.) and did not comment on his tail or hooves or how demonic they made him look. The group had more or less accepted him as he was, and that was not something that happened terribly often. 

The Horadrim were a good group. Rathma had decided that their souls would be protected, and their graves untouched when they passed on. Their memories would be preserved.

He still wasn’t totally sure what to think of Tyrael though. Part of him was starting to think that this was not Tyrael, could not be Tyrael. Tyrael was the monstrous angel that his father had feared, that had nearly burned Sanctuary. This was...just a man. A tall, dark skinned man who snored and liked sweets, who ran into the same doorway every other morning and smiled at the sunset. 

Reconciling these two ideas as being one and the same was not something Rathma was having an easy time with. 

Could all angels be so...normal? Had this always been an option? The idea was starting to drive him mad. The Heavens had always posed such a threat to Sanctuary, still did, but here was something that suggested they didn’t have to. Wings or no wings, if Tyrael of all angels could bring himself to live among mortals and drink as they did and sleep as they did...why couldn’t the rest?

Or even demons for that matter… Such thoughts were bigger than he wanted to think about though. The idea that everyone was one and the same was somehow mind boggling to him. It made as much sense as it didn’t. 

Mortals came from angels and demons, they should have been very alike, shouldn’t they? [ If two species can produce viable offspring they are the same] 

And yet. And yet…

Peace on Sanctuary had not truly existed since its earliest days, when only angel and demon walked its lands. There was always some conflict or another going on. Mortal versus mortal, mortal versus demon, demon versus angel...angel versus mortal. Angel versus angel. All had constantly occurred since the first Nephalem had bled out upon the rocks, sparking vicious civil war between the people of Sanctuary, striking the fear into the hearts of their parents. At no point was someone not trying to kill someone else, this Rathma could be certain of. 

Was this all Creation had in store for them? If the Eternal Conflict was anything to go by… Rathma wasn’t sure what other options there were. 

Mortals had held the power to tip the scales several times now. And each time, no matter who they defeated, someone else came along to spark up another battle. (Perhaps, with the Evils stowed away and Malthael imprisoned, perhaps there was a chance now.) 

All this he’d turned over and over in his head. Was there even a point in trying to make sense of it? If peace was never possible, if peace was possible...why did he even care anymore?

Rathma’s day was long since over. Perhaps it was time to throw down the proverbial blade, and call it quits. The ancient Nephalem had never quit anything in his life, but there was always a first time for everything. He didn’t particularly enjoy the thought of quitting, but then, he didn’t much care for the thought of continuing his old path indefinitely either. 

And of course, there were the Horadrim. There were also the Neo-Nephalem, those that had stood against Malthael beside him. Rathma had been able to feel their battle in the High Heavens, though he’d been far too weak at the time to do anything about it. They all held such promise within them… And without the stone to hold them back, who knew what they could become in time. 

Yes. The more he thought about it, the more Rathma believed that it was time to stop. Simply stop, and perhaps live, for the first time in such a long time. Leave the fight for someone else to take up. 

For someone who’d spent several lifetimes asleep, the ancient had found he was awfully tired. Death would probably find him soon, and he knew he was long overdue for that particular meeting. 

That decision out of the way, all there was to do now was figure what he was supposed to do with himself for the rest of his life. How hard could that be? There was an awful lot that needed fixing in the world, and he was no carpenter, but he could flatten his skeleton to fit anywhere his skull could, and he could have as many arms as he pleased at any given time. Putting these talents to public use was an attractive option he supposed. Harassing Tyrael was another, which would probably be far more entertaining too.

Rathma could probably manage both, if he tried hard enough. 


	15. Gift

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> They're starting to get used to one another.

Life became normal. Routine. Simple. 

Tyrael could honestly say he wouldn’t miss the constant tension and fear that the last few months had brought. Since he’d fallen, it felt as though events had charged forward at a breakneck pace - Leah, Adria, Arreat, Diablo, the Heavens, Malthael - all within the span of a few months. This was a lot for a mortal, let alone an angel, who was used to having all the time in the world at his disposal. 

And so the days of dull nothingness had come to him strange, but welcome. All there was to worry about was rebuilding, and the Horadrim. And, of course, Rathma. The Nephalem was adept at taking care of himself though, so really, just the first two. 

After a few weeks, Rathma had finally settled into something like a routine. He still came and went as he pleased, but there were certain days he would most certainly be present, and others he most definitely would not. 

Tyrael memorized the pattern, and reacted accordingly. There was always a room prepared when Rathma needed it. Neither one of them discussed the arrangement, and Tyrael decided to be pleased with the fact that he could keep track of the wayward Nephalem, at least some of the time. At no point had he expected Rathma to respond to his consideration with gifts of his own. 

They would appear in random, often hidden locations, but always where Tyrael was likely to happen upon them. (That the Nephalem could so easily predict his movements was vaguely unnerving, but also touching.) So far, he’d acquired an old Nephalem blade, texts citing the policies and government of several nations that no longer existed, a gabbering gemstone, one very big mushroom, and a book that he could swear let out satanic mooing on occasion. It was an odd assortment of gifts, but Tyrael happily studied all of them, and took steps to ensure their preservation. 

Life went on. They continued their pattern, and Westmarch grew around them. 

The capitol city had erupted into a hub of activity in the days following the attack. Structures needed repair, leadership was a question, families were broken. There was also the neighboring cities in the kingdom to account for, and send aid to. Something could always be found to do, but that something was rarely so life-threatening as charging out across ice and brimstone to face the armies of Hell. 

Repair, Tyrael could deal with. It was a nice change of pace really. It felt good to help the people around him, and watch them rise up.

As the people sorted out their governing issue, Tyrael and his group lent their hands where they could, when they could. And they kept their ears open, and eyes watchful. Rathma had made a point when he brought up Imperius’s wrath, and it couldn’t hurt to be prepared for the worst. 

Really though, there wasn’t so much to worry about now. 

Buildings were raised. People banded together, as humans did. Tyrael continued learning more and more about mortality, about humanity, and all its little nuances. He was quite sure there would always be more to learn about the people of Sanctuary. Always some cultural quirk, or some physical thing he’d previously not noticed. 

Tyrael watched a child get a splinter, and learned just how frail human skin could be. He watched that child’s mother tend the splinter, and give comfort. He watched several dozen strangers come together and raise an entire house from nothing, for nothing, but the sake of that woman and her five homeless children. The mortal’s capacity for compassion continued to astound him. Where they were needed, good people came. It was an utterly fascinating phenomenon to be witnessing first hand. 

Around the time Tyrael had been wondering if it would be impolite to record his thoughts on the matter, Rathma had thumped a set of three thick journals down on his desk. Yet another of his strange ‘gifts’. They were old, worn out things, and at the time, Tyrael had been between errands. He’d thanked his nephew, asked him if he could check on the Horadrim for him, and been on his way. 

It was much later in the evening that he’d rediscovered the tomes, and finally gotten the time to read them. And what a marvellous gift they turned out to be.

To his amazement, Tyrael found writings that mirrored his own thoughts. Apparently, humans were just as prone to helping one another at the dawn of modern mortals as they were now. The former angel had eagerly read through half the first book before he even thought to check who had written them, or where they’d come from. 

The answer was perhaps the last one he’d expected. Tyrael was shocked to learn that Rathma had kept his father’s writings all these years. Just how the Nephalem had come into their possession, he was violently curious about. 

Reading his brother’s journals made his heart ache and throb in ways he previously hadn’t experienced. Inarius had found much the same as he had, felt like he did. Tyrael longed for his brother’s presence more than ever at that point - longed to speak to him, to discuss the wondrous thing he’d curated here upon his creation. It...hurt, knowing what had become of him.Yes, it hurt, and he could admit that now that he was not bound to the rigidity of the Heavens. 

What changed brother? What drove you to such mad destruction as we found upon Sanctuary around you?

For a brief moment, Tyrael considered asking Rathma about it, but decided to let that conversation wait. For now, he would simply read, and experience, and maybe record his own thoughts on the newfound normalcy around him. 

Tyrael hadn’t felt this connected to his brother since long before Sanctuary’s creation. 


	16. Memory

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Those books had a bit of history behind them - and a lot of history in them.

Rathma had very nearly burned his father's journals several times over. 

Rage, frustration, sadness - they were all very powerful emotions, ones everyone struggled with. Even Rathma. He had stood, fires lit, and awful ache in his heart, ready to drop the wretched old things into their destruction.

Something always held him back though. Maybe it was the information the tomes held. Maybe it was that destroying knowledge went against everything Rathma stood for. Maybe, just maybe, they represented some of the few good memories he had of Inarius. Maybe that was why he wanted to be rid of them so badly some days, and read them over and over on others. 

It was easier to pretend that the angel had never loved him, and that there had been no bond between them. Easier to say, if asked, that Inarius had simply detested him from the moment of his birth. Easier than admitting that he had once basked in the love and affection of both his parents, before losing both. So, so much easier to pretend that, in the quiet-empty-lonely hours of the night, he didn’t think of the days so long ago when they had been a family. (He was too old for these things. Or so he told himself.)

Linarian had been beloved. Rathma was but a misbegotten wretch. 

On rare occasions, the ancient caught himself wondering what became of Inarius. Angels were stubborn, adaptable creatures, and he was more so than most. Odds were, he was still alive somewhere. Rathma didn’t particularly like to think about it though.

The longer he stayed around Tyrael, however, the more he thought about it. Tyrael was awfully like his brother. They sounded alike, they acted alike, hell he even seemed to think like Inarius sometimes. 

The idea had come to Rathma seemingly at random one evening. Tyrael never asked where he went for those extended periods of time, which was a good thing, because Rathma wouldn’t have told him where he made his (as Kalan liked to call it) lair. It was as ancient as he was and in disrepair, but it was home. It hadn’t been home since the founding of the Necropolis, but he wasn’t quite sure when he’d be ready to face that mess. 

Cleaning out his old subterranean domain was by far preferred. It gave him something to do with himself, and provided plentiful peace and quiet when the bustle of Westmarch became too much. Sure, the place was a mess and a half, but really it was a simple matter of relocating all the dust and dirt that had settled over everything, and reinforcing the structure where it had begun to collapse. After that, all the old den really needed was a rug or two and probably some new furniture. Maybe. 

(Rathma didn’t much care about the furniture, but Kalan had stressed that such things were a requirement for any home. The man had more experience with society than he did, so Rathma had to assume he was right.)

Making his lair habitable again gave him something to focus on that wasn’t...everything else. The longer Rathma stayed in Westmarch, the more painfully aware that this was not the Sanctuary he remembered. 

As it happened, once he’d squeezed into his old-old study, most of his books were still intact. The study was the most well-protected part of the structure after all - knowledge was a precious thing. He’d spent a long afternoon sorting through the various tomes and scrolls and texts. A mountain of dust and several cleared shelves later, and he’d found them. 

Three dusty journals. There wasn’t anything particularly extraordinary about them. They were bound in soft leather, and the pages were still thick and pulpy, as all paper had been back when they were written. No, nothing extraordinary about them at all, save for who had written them.   
Inarius had apparently found human society fascinating enough to write about it. By a stroke of luck, Rathma had found his father’s books a short time after they’d been abandoned by the angel. He’d kept them here in the study ever since. 

Not even Kalan had ever been permitted to read them - he hadn’t even known about their existence. Rathma wasn’t entirely sure why he’d kept the books so secret, but he’d stuck to it.   
Except now. He and Tyrael seemed to have come to terms with one-another. Or rather, Rathma had come to terms with Tyrael’s existence, and Tyrael hadn’t pushed him. Gift-giving was the typical way Nephalem said thank you for something, and so Rathma had done as his own culture bade. He hadn’t really thought of his father’s books until he’d come across them, but he knew how Tyrael was feeling about humanity right now. 

And he knew that the former angel was starting to feel really quite isolated. Lonely. 

And those books...weren’t doing any good sitting in a dusty old cavern, where he wouldn’t read them. Where he honestly didn’t want them. 

The decision had been surprisingly painless. Shuffle the books into a bag, continue tidying the old study (he had a half-dozen other bookshelves to go through, who knew what else he’d find.) Dump the tomes on Tyrael the first chance he got. The former angel would probably get far more use out of them than Rathma ever would. 

Becoming something one wasn’t was not an easy journey by any means. He had to grudgingly admit that Tyrael had been doing an admirable job thus far, but even so. Inarius’s situation had not been the same, but it had been similar. Close enough.

Tyrael’s delight when he finally figured out just what Rathma had given him was...pleasant. It was nice bringing some happiness into the world.


	17. Apprehension

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Rathma gets himself into a bit of trouble, Tyrael cares very much.

Tyrael and the Horadrim were settling into Westmarch’s new culture of work-and-fix, and he was reasonably sure Rathma was too. Things had been calm and quiet for a while now, and Tyrael was really starting to think-hope that they’d managed to carve out a little slice of peace during this time.

Or at least, he had been. 

On a normal afternoon in the quiet autumn season, the old nephalem reappeared. In front, almost on top of Tyrael’s cluttered desk, Rathma abruptly re-entered the angel’s immediate sphere of attention. 

Now, this was not especially out of the ordinary. Rathma came and went without warning, at random. His habit of appearing out of thin air had become familiar to Tyrael, and the former angel had (mostly) stopped jumping up when he made his entrances. (He thought maybe the nephalem was just trying to get a rise out of him. Literally.)

And so, during this particular interruption into his day, Tyrael was not immediately alarmed into action. He looked up, stared blankly, and Rathma stared back. Dully, Tyrael noticed his normally-pale nephew was...very red. Very, very red. In fact, he was dripping red onto Tyrael’s desk. 

Rathma broke the stare first, likely not because he wanted to, but simply because he was in the midst of collapsing. His head smacked into the desk on the way down, and he landed in an unceremonious heap on the floor. There was a beat of shocked silence as Tyrael processed all this.

And then, Tyrael did jump. Up, out of his seat, up, over his desk. 

“By the light!” He skidded to his knees beside Rathma with a shout of alarm that morphed into a call for the other Horadrim. Desperately and despairingly, he pulled the pale figure over. Pulled his head into his lap, checked for any...obvious damage. He cursed the gloves he wore, for he could not check a pulse with them fastened on. 

He didn’t find much more than a bruise, not that Tyrael really knew what he was looking for. Cradling his head, Tyrael checked the rest of his body for the source of the [red-red-red]. His hands were slick with it, it was everywhere he looked, where was it coming from-?

The Horadrim were there now, bleating out noises of confusion and alarm. Apprehensively, Tyrael continued his search for wherever all the blood-red-blood was coming from. He did not notice their healer beside him, or the way Rathma stirred ever so slightly. The cloak he always wore fluttered around him, making it difficult to see-

“It’s not mine.” Came the rasp. Tyrael looked down, incredulous. Rathma squinted up at him (he had red on his lips, cheeks, in his eyes.) 

The noises had ground to a halt as everyone acknowledged what the nephalem had said, then started back up all over again. Demands of explanations, sighs of relief, curiosities and worries. With a huff, Rathma tried to raise a hand, found he really couldn’t. He was awfully tired, but…

“Apologies for- for the mess?” He offered to Tyrael’s panicked stare. The (former) angel didn’t reply - not with words. Rathma blinked as he found himself yanked into a forceful hug. Of course he could feel the rawness of Tyrael’s [human, so human] emotions. Panic, fear, relief, anger-fear. It was so strange to feel such things from...anyone really, about...himself…

Things were still for one frozen moment. Something in his heart simply melted away in that space, some part that had long been abandoned and forgotten about by everyone who mattered-

“What in the Burning Hells happened to you?” And then Tyrael was letting go of him, and he was still really quite afraid, but he was angry too, angrily relieved. “Whose blood is this if it’s not yours? What did you do?” And full of questions, as he so often was. Rathma couldn’t help the tiny smile. 

“There are cultists in the Moors.” He answered truthfully. And Tyrael looked real angry then, real unimpressed and like he wanted to call his nephew ten different kinds of idiot (which, well, he kind of was). He sucked in a breath, and Rathma thought he might do just that before he abruptly let it out again. The once-angel’s face abruptly looked as old as Rathma sometimes felt, and he couldn’t help but feel the slightest bit guilty for dropping in so messily. 

“Fine. We can discuss your...findings, later.” Tyrael spoke very patiently. Rathma was fascinated for a moment, before he let out an abrupt alarmed squawk. He hadn’t realized Tyrael could just pick him up like this, but there they were. 

“And you are not leaving until we’ve gone over what happened, why you’re covered in blood, and how dumb whatever it is you did probably was.” Tyrael was speaking conversationally, and Rathma lashed his tail in agitation. 

“I can walk-”

“You hit your head on the desk. Could be a concussion, yes?” Tyrael smoothly replied. Rathma glowered. “One should not be walking freshly concussed.” 

Rathma gave him the flattest look he could muster. With a twist of his hips and a swish of his tail, he elegantly flopped out of Tyrael’s arms. His hooves clopped against the wooden floor, much louder than his usual dainty clip. 

The nephalem didn’t go far, choosing instead using his uncle as a crutch of sorts. 

“You’re not carrying me like that.” He stated. “...Might drop me.” Tyrael looked cross, but relented. He hadn’t really expected to get away with that anyway. 

The group began their shuffle out of Tyrael’s study. Adrenaline had begun to wear off, replaced with wary relief and dull amusement. It may have been a time of peace, but Sanctuary was as dangerous as ever. Trouble was brewing beneath the Moors...


	18. Soft

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Nephalem like nesting, and this gives Tyrael some feels.

Keeping a nephalem killing machine bed-ridden, particularly one that was used to going off on his own with no one to ~~care about him~~ answer to, was far trickier than Tyrael anticipated. He had been relieved when his nephew had located the first available surface that looked suitably sleebable. He’d been able to slow his hammering heart, and deal with the complete panic that seeing Rathma so...well he wasn’t injured, but Tyrael hadn’t known that. Seeing him collapse, covered in enough blood to thoroughly stain his floors for months, had shaken him.

Rathma had flopped down on one of the numerous couches in the room that Lorath insisted was a ‘family room’, and Tyrael had been relieved. The nephalem had slept for a day and a half, and this, too, had been a relief. (Nephalem were quite strange, and did not follow the same rules as humans. Rathma in particular was...exceptionally strange.)

Was it normal to feel so strongly about another person’s health? Angels did not typically show such compassion for one another. Even the angels of Hope were really only concerned with healing a wound, and sending you on your way. 

Feeling such fear and concern, and relief and hope for the sake of another was a very mortal thing to do, he had decided. (And given he was mortal now, this was most probably a good thing.)

Tyrael had been significantly less relieved to discover Rathma up and about the next evening. Didn’t he ever rest? 

A quick, “Hey you should still be resting.” and a “If you need something please tell someone else and they’ll get it for you.” had earned him the typical annoyed squint from Rathma. The nephalem had relented though, and found another couch to colonize. The living cloak that he wore kept bundling itself around him, and Tyrael had thought it hissed at him when he came to near. (Had Rathma been lying about his injuries? Why else would his living garment be so protective.) Round one, to the angel. 

The next morning, Tyrael nearly blew a gasket upon finding his nephew missing once more. That is, until he’d had a pillow dropped in front of him. Why Rathma had relocated himself to the wooden beams supporting the ceiling, he would not answer. 

A brief argument had broken out; mostly Tyrael demanding he come down, and Rathma flatly refusing. He seemed comfortable enough up there though, so Tyrael relented. 

Pillows started disappearing. Well, briefly-go-missing was perhaps a more apt description. They would be relocated rather quick, stuck to the ceiling. Whatever magic Rathma used to keep them up there was apparently quite potent, for once they went up, they rarely came back down. Blankets too, could be found stuck to the ceiling. 

After a day or so, the odd construct began reminding Tyrael of the nests angels used to make. The practice had fallen out of favor as they’d thrown themselves fully into wartime, for they’d begun sleeping less, and sleeping communally when they did. Individual nests became something only civilians had, and even then they were rare. 

He supposed it made sense though. The firstborn nephalem were rather feral from what he’d gathered. Likely, they had been in a similar cultural stage to early angels during Rathma’s time. 

It was rather fascinating, truly. Enough so that Tyrael had stopped to take notes, and promptly found a pillow lobbed in his direction. 

Having the big construct looming over everyone’s heads had been disconcerting at first, but everyone more or less got used to having it there. They got used to having Rathma himself there too. From what they all gathered he spent the majority of his time up there sleeping, but would occasionally resurface if someone needed him. 

The odd nest became an ordinary part of their commune, stuck up in a corner of the livingroom. Tyrael, for one, appreciated that Rathma apparently trusted them enough to heal near them. It had been Lorath who pointed out that hiding when injured was a very common thing to...everything on Sanctuary. Hiding oneself away where nothing could disturb was one of the few options a creature living apart from society had. 

Rathma wasn’t exactly apart from society anymore though. Or at the very least, he’d become a part of the Horadrim and Tyrael’s little group. 

When the nest vanished overnight, and everything ended up back where it had come from, Tyrael couldn’t help his disappointment. He couldn’t help but to be dismayed to find Rathma missing again too. 

It was silly to be so concerned, he knew. He’d seen the nephalem’s healing ability first hand during the assault on Sanctuary from the Reapers. Truthfully, even if Rathma had been injured doing...whatever he was doing on the moors, he would’ve healed over days ago. Perhaps he’d simply enjoyed having the nest to return to when he needed it, but the nephalem was a solitary creature, and Tyrael knew this. 

Still. 

The nest came down, and things went back to normal. Rathma came and went, and brought back news of a cult of demon-worshippers stirring near Caldeum. He was oddly hesitant with the location, and Tyrael suspected there was something more too it. Much more…

But for as much as he should’ve been focussed on this new threat, Tyrael couldn’t help but consider how his relationship with his nephew was developing. While he wouldn’t exactly say they were close now, the nephalem was much more comfortable with and around him. He knew exactly what would have happened if he’d so much as touched Rathma when they first met, and involved lots of impalement. That he’d carried him for even a short time was miraculous. That he could get away with ordering the old necromancer to stay down was shocking, but welcome. 

Dare he say, dare he think...Rathma trusted him. It was a nice thought to try out, and made something in him very pleased indeed. Probably the part of him that was very mortal, and very homesick. 

Rathma was no angel, but he was family, and Tyrael knew that on a soul deep level. It seemed Rathma knew that too now. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> We all knew this would become fluffy at some point.  
> Little bit o Arts too.


	19. Feathered

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Rathma gives a little Nephalem history lesson. Angels may not have feathered wings, but some mortals did.

They had continued exploring Corvus, now that there wasn’t a witch making the place a dangerous bloody mess. There was so much history to be found beneath the mud and murk of the marshes. Having an actual Firstborn Nephalem made the journey significantly easier. 

The walls did not resist humans as they did angels and demons, but they were riddled with the old runic language of the Nephalem. Few could read it, Rathma being one of them. While he had been quietly teaching Lorath the language, progress could only go so quick, and it wouldn’t due to walk into a blatant acid pit when the warning signs were glaring. 

“I’m not sure I understand - they had seen what angels look like. Why depict them so?” Tyrael’s question was genuine, but it still made Rathma huff a sigh through his nose. 

The former angel was looking at a carving of an elegant figure with great, arching feathered wings. He thought there was a halo over its head, leading him to believe it must’ve been an angel. There was no discernable gender, but this seemed to be the status quo for much of the art in Corvus. The carving held a lot of resemblance to modern imagery of angels, and Tyrael was vaguely impressed that mortals had clung to the same traits for so long. 

Hooves clicking on the ancient stone floor, Rathma stalked up behind him.

“That’s not an angel.” The Nephalem simply explained. “That was...hmm let’s see…” He came forward and took a knee, squinting at some chipped runes. 

“Oh.” Tyrael blinked, feeling a little silly. “But then, why did mortals for so long give angels feathered wings?” 

Rathma was frowning at the inscription. “Historical mixup.” He absently called over his shoulder. “At some point the concept of a ‘Nephalem’ was lost, but the artwork of them remained. Most assumed they were either angels or demons.” 

“Oh.” An abrupt pang of sadness hit Tyrael then. The memory of his own people had survived, at least in some way, throughout Sanctuary. Demons were well known for their constant appearances. But up until recently, humans had all but forgotten their own history. Nephalem weren’t even folk-tales. They were either written over, or completely absent from historical records. 

It was a good thing Corvus still existed, he decided. Sanctuary should have its history preserved...Actually-

“Rathma, are there other cities like Corvus? Ones that survived time?” The Nephalem had been murmuring under his breath, but looked up quizzically at the question. He considered for a moment, tail flicking. 

“Not many. Most have been destroyed, or built over by humans.” As with all necromancers, Rathma’s voice was quite blank and emotionless. Tyrael thought he might’ve been squashing down more emotion than usual, though. 

Finally he stood, and stepped back. “This was supposed to be Surga the Quick. They were a courier of some kind, and would guide those seeking refuge to Corvus.” The Nephalem paused, and did a motion with his hands before muttering a few words in the language of necromancy. Tyrael gave a quiet prayer of his own to the figure - they must’ve been important if Rathma was giving homage to them. 

“...what would Nephalem be seeking refuge from?” Tyrael quietly asked as they walked away from the carving. 

Rathma gave him a sour look, and he reflected that a month ago this would have led to the Nephalem’s swift departure from his presence. 

“You really ought to already know the answer to that question.” Rathma groused. They were walking through one of the many crumbling, high-ceilinged walkways now, and coming to a bridge. As they crossed, Tyrael couldn’t help but marvel at the chasm below. Other levels could be seen, and more walkways criss-crossed beneath them. But the bottom could not be seen. 

They walked in silence for a moment, until Rathma spoke up again. “Corvus was originally just a regular city. A big city, yes, and one of our first but...there was nothing terribly miraculous about it. It only became a refuge after the Great Purge.” His voice was flat, and Tyrael dared not interrupt him. Who knew when the next time he’d speak about such things would be. 

“They sunk the city themselves, you know. The Nephalem who lived here. Inarius had known about it all along, seen its rise from flat nothingness into a town and then a city.” Around them Corvus seemed to grow brighter as its story was told. “Who could predict what he’d do to such a populous city. And so they hid it, and themselves.”

There had been a terrifying few years during which Inarius had not tolerated the Nephalem. Several had tried to fight back against him, demanding he reverse the Worldstone’s effects. Rathma - Linarian then - had been the first to learn just how suicidal such a quest was. 

No one was totally sure when the angel had deemed mortals weak enough that he stopped the cullings. Perhaps it was once he thought all the firstborn were wiped out. 

Corvus had stood for a time, a beacon of peace and refuge. But it simply became too dangerous for such a city to exist. Inarius would’ve destroyed it himself if it had not disappeared on its own. 

Rathma gestured upwards, towards the ceiling of the cavern. “They made it look like an accident. A natural disaster - Sanctuary was ever-shifting during that time, you know. Land-slides were common-place.” They neared the end of the bridge, and left the yawning chasm behind. “Of course they couldn’t hide Corvus, and its people, forever. But it lasted long enough, and it seems many of its wards still stand.”

“Could they really repel an angel fueled by the Worldstone?” Tyrael quietly asked. Such power as that…

The Nephalem beside him simply shrugged though. “I don’t think they ever had to find out.” 

They continued on. As they went, Rathma began pointing out individuals in the many carvings dotting Corvus’s walls. Mostly Nephalem, some feathered and beatific, others grotesque and bladed. Many were a mix of the two. 

Corvus held so much more history than he’d originally thought. And he would’ve never found out, were it not for the ancient being beside him. Tyrael wondered if there were perhaps other places of history that still remained. He hoped there were. 

Such history was too precious not to be remembered. 


	20. Inviting

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Deep and dark and oh so very dusty.

“Where are you bringing me again?” Tyrael half-heartedly asked for the sixth or seventh time. He stomped through the thick jungle-growth behind his nephew who seemed to almost glide through it all.

“Someplace old and dusty.” Was Rathma’s reply. The last time he asked, it had been ‘Somewhere dark but not dangerous’ and before that ‘Probably not a tomb’. Tyrael was starting to figure out his nephew’s sense of humor. Sort of. (The Horadrim did not believe the Nephalem had one. Tyrael knew it was simply very, very dry.)

They continued their trek. Idly, Tyrael hoped the nephalem hadn’t become sick of his presence and planned his imminent demise. (This would be very silly, he told himself. And Rathma was not terribly inclined towards silliness.) 

“Here.” He nearly ran into the nephalem when he stopped up short. Glancing around, Tyrael didn’t see anything particularly out of the ordinary. Just jungle foliage thick enough that he couldn’t see anything but green. 

It soon became clear that Tyrael didn’t see whatever it was that Rathma was showing him. With a barely-discernible roll of his eyes, he grabbed the former angel’s wrist and continued on. Tyrael was about to ask again where they were headed, when the ground seemed to abruptly open up around him. Suddenly, he could see the entry-way among the mud and rocks and roots. It had been hidden from his vision - perhaps because he was still an angel at heart?

Rathma did not pause to marvel at the entrance, nor allow Tyrael to do so. They descended rather briskly. The passage was dark and cool, but Rathma seemed completely at ease. Thus, Tyrael decided to be at ease. (Honestly if Rathma were going to harm him in some way he’d had ample opportunity by now.)

“Hold up.” Rathma uttered. “Close your eyes for a moment.” 

Confused, Tyrael obeyed, squeezing his eyes shut - and something flashed. When he opened his eyes again, the way was lit by several spectral lights of some kind. Before them was a stone staircase that was cracked and crumbling in places. 

“The way can be treacherous for those with less-sure footing.” Rathma glanced back at him, bringing his hands down, and Tyrael frowned at him. Okay, so Tyrael was not the most graceful mortal to ever mortal. He still chalked it up to getting used to a heavy flesh body. Rathma seemed to think he was simply a clumsy person. 

Rathma smirked, and ever-so-brief quirk of the lips. They continued on. 

Down, down they went, in a gentle spiral. The temperature dropped, but did not become uncomfortable. Tyrael marvelled that wherever-this-was still managed to be navigable, if dangerous to tread in. Judging from the cobwebs and the staleness of the air, it had been around a while. 

The sound of their footsteps was starting to become deafening in the silence, but right when Tyrael was about to speak up, they reached a landing. Darkness yawned around them. 

“Shield your eyes once more.” Rathma was raising his hands, magic flickering about them, and Tyrael hastily brought up an arm to protect himself. There was yet another flash, this one warmer, more inviting. 

When Tyrael looked this time, he was surprised to find what almost looked like a house before him. In a state of immense disrepair, and lit only by the glowing-orange braziers lining the walls, but a home nonetheless. Rathma confidently strode inward, and Tyrael followed. 

The furniture was mostly cracked or warped, or otherwise unusable. Old shelves had collapsed, spilling their contents about the floor. Broken glass, jars, old-old ingredients for whatever spell-work Rathma used to do were scattered about. Tyrael thought there might have been a fireplace against the one wall, if the pile of bricks was anything to go by. 

They were in a main living area of sorts, full of cobwebs and dust and dirt. Tyrael wished he could’ve seen it all before age had claimed so much of it. 

“Is this place...yours?” Tyrael ran a hand over an old wooden table. The grooves had begun to force themselves apart, creating space for more dust to collect. 

“Yes.” Rathma stepped around some rubble where the ceiling had apparently given in and littered the place with dirt and rock. “One who lives must live somewhere.” 

“But you have not lived here for some time.” His hand came away really quite filthy, and Tyrael wiped it on his tabard. He turned his attention towards one of the fallen shelves. Some books - those that had survived - had been stacked up beside the splintered wood. Others were spread out, and evidently Rathma had been trying to piece some of them back together. 

Just how often had he been visiting this place? 

“I have not exactly been alive for some time. I had no reason to come here once the Necropolis was built.” The Nephalem’s voice echoed around the home from wherever he’d disappeared to. “No reason but memory I suppose.” 

“But you live now.” Tyrael followed after his nephew.”Do you plan on making this place habitable again?” He side-eyed one of the less-stable looking walls. If he had to guess the place must’ve been much bigger at one point. There looked to be several caved-in doorways, and Tyrael wondered what they had led to.

“Oh I don’t know.” Rathma was leaned against another doorway, this one miraculously intact. The hallway around him looked as though he’d been working to repair it, however. “I suppose I could. Or find some place new.” The Nephalem turned to enter another room, and Tyrael followed. 

A breath of excitement left the former angel as he realized where they were. It was a study, filled with stacks of books and collections of scrolls. A veritable treasure-trove of information and history. 

In contrast to the rest of the home, this room’s structure seemed untouched. It looked as though Rathma had focussed on this room in particular, and Tyrael could understand why. 

There must have been so much preserved here. 

Excitedly, Tyrael looked to Rathma where he’d propped his hip against an old desk. The nephalem simply gestured at the room around him. 

“I didn’t bring you here to look at me. I brought you here for this.” Pushing himself up, Rathma shuffled through some papers. “I would like to have it all preserved and copied, but the undertaking has become too great for me alone. Simply going through it all has been taking weeks.” 

“I am...honoured.” Mindful of his steps, Tyrael entered fully, and began perusing one of the shelves still full of books. He pulled one free gingerly, as though it would disintegrate if touched. He heard Rathma’s huffy snicker behind him. 

“Be not afraid to touch. You’ve a lot of reading before you, best to be comfortable with them.” Tyrael turned to his nephew once more, a confused frown on his face. 

“Not that I do not wish to partake in all this,” He nodded at the tomes before him, “But why bring me here now?” 

Rathma gave him a considering look. “You asked, when we were in Corvus, if any other places of Nephalem History still stood.” Then he raised his hand at the room as a whole. “And here we are.” 

Tyrael could only blink in surprise. He did not expect Rathma to have remembered something so small like that. The old nephalem was still full of surprises it seemed. 

Privately very pleased with his current lot in life, Tyrael turned back to the book in his hands, and got to work. The history would not recount itself. 


	21. Horror

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Be careful going through a necromancer's book collection. Who knows what he's got in there. (Chapter contains hints of gore, and an inhuman being discovering how grotty humans are on the inside.)

It had been very easy for Tyrael to forget about just what kind of magic Rathma practiced. The nephalem rarely had any reason whatsoever to use it around him. 

Of course the former-angel knew the basic concepts behind necromancy. He had seen some of its proper usage from the two ‘Chosen’ that had battled Malthael alongside the other Neo-Nephalem. He had seen some of the worst that dabbling in Death had to offer from Malthael himself. Most of this he had forgotten as well, however. It simply wasn’t relevant to his current goals, and so he hadn’t given it any thought. 

And really, Tyrael was well aware he had no business judging the art. Rathma’s students had contributed time and time again to the wellbeing of Sanctuary. According to the nephalem himself, Balance was what truly mattered to a necromancer. Balance of life, balance of death, balance in light and dark, good and evil. 

The concept was actually very similar to some of the core values of justice. Fairness, the ground between right and wrong, truth and morals...the scales always need be balanced, or chaos and revenge would reign. 

Being the former Aspect of Justice, Tyrael found he could easily get behind the ideals that Rathma stood for. In theory. 

They had gone to Rathma’s old study for the information it held. Precious old records and recounts of events and history that could not be found anywhere else in creation. Tyrael had happily gone through it all with his nephew. It made him feel like they were close. 

Currently, the former angel found himself sitting cross-legged, tucked up against a bookshelf. He was steadily going through the lower volumes, categorizing and cataloguing. Pick up a book, read a little, write down what he’d found in a notebook and place it with similar subjects.

It was rather calming work, and interesting too. While the predominant subject was of course history, there were other works mixed in too - and from various authors. Magic, architecture, art. Tyrael had found multiple of each already.

And then he’d found a book that must have been penned by Rathma himself. The cover was plain enough, a deep burgundy leather, with an image of a dagger embossed on the front. As he had done with every other work he’d found Tyrael had begun skimming through the contents to figure out what he held. The language was both legible and illegible in places, and Tyrael decided that the author must have gone back and written more several times. Some words were faded, and some looked to have been written by a different hand. Perhaps an editor? Or one of Rathma’s old students?

Around the time that he’d found the first diagram of a dissected arm, the angel began to suspect what he had in his hands. He had not taken Rathma for an illustrator before. The book, however, was filled with them. 

As he went through, Tyrael began having serious doubts about his mortal body. Who knew there could be so...much, inside a human? Privately, Tyrael was really quite glad that his innards were...well inside. Seeing even sketches of the human body was oddly disturbing. 

He supposed it made sense that mortals were so solid, if they had so much stuff inside. 

Tyrael slapped the tome shut, and set it down. Breathed a sigh. Glanced over at his nephew, who had scaled the walls in an effort to reach the highest shelves. The old nephalem flipped himself upside down with the use of that prehensile tail of his, and continued his work. A few bones floated across the room to add themselves to a growing pile. (They were stashed everywhere it seemed.) Rathma turned, and their eyes met briefly, and Tyrael looked away with a self-conscious smile. 

King of the Necromancers. Right. 

The next book he flipped through was about demons, and their...uses. Not that Tyrael could understand the script, but the pictures told him enough. Oddly, the material almost entranced him. Being an angel, he had never seen anything quite like this book of demons. 

Sure, he knew the basics about them. But few angels had ever been willing to write down much about their hellish counterparts. 

He thought that the first section might have been detailing behaviors of common demons. Strengths, weaknesses, habits and the like. Some were more detailed than the rest. He recognized the depictions of Fallen Ones, and the Khazra. There were overlords, which had several words in bright red ink - warnings perhaps? An image of a Butcher demon, and some of the havok one could wreak. Skeletons of various kinds, sizes and uses of the individual bones. 

Towards the middle of the book, Tyrael discovered that all seven Evils were in the book too - with alarming accuracy. He knew Rathma had encountered Mephisto before, but when would he have gotten close enough to the rest? This book was old, too. Far too old to have been based off the recent attacks and tragedies caused by the master demons. 

Had...had the evils been so active on Sanctuary for so long? Well, he had known about the Triune from other accounts. But Baal? Azmodan? Just how did Rathma get close enough to be able to depict them so accurately?

Tyrael abruptly decided it was probably better if he didn’t know. Rathma had clearly gotten this far without being corrupted or possessed or anything, so he must’ve known what he was doing. 

Probably. Hopefully. 

Tyrael placed that book with the first one, and moved on. 

Belatedly, Tyrael realised there were almost a dozen of these ‘necromancy books.’ If the first two had bothered him so, what would ten more do? 

“Would you rather switch?” Rathma’s voice sounded much closer to him than he’d anticipated. Tyrael looked up, and all but fell over when he realized the nephalem had (oh so silently) moved from the other side of the study to crouch directly in front of him. 

Rathma raised a delicate brow, and tilted his head. 

“That would...perhaps be best.” Tyrael uttered, and began to push himself up. The necromancer beside him hummed, and scooped up the book he’d previously been leafing through. Tyrael thought he might have been pleased to discover that particular tome. 

For his part, Tyrael was quite pleased to go back to some history books, and leave the horrors of demons and necromancy to Rathma. 


	22. Uncanny

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Rathma has himself a nice little rampage against some cultists. (Might've been better suited for the Horror prompt. Oh well! Blood, Death, and Cults to be found inside.)

Down on the soil of Sanctuary, walking around at midnight during a full moon was asking for it. Doing so on the fifteenth day during the month of Kathon could be called idiotic. Blood moons were not to be trifled with, and they had an unfortunate tendency to bring out the more dangerous members of Sanctuary. If it wasn’t the cults, it was the witches. If it wasn’t the witches, it was the magi, searching for ever-more power and control of things they were better-off not touching. 

Doing all of the above in the middle of cultist-infested territory was a sure-fire way to get oneself killed in all manners brutal and terrible. 

Of course this particular night found Rathma stalking through the Shrouded Moors. No doubt there would be any number of rituals conducted under the Eye of Baal. Destruction was imminent.

Idly, Rathma had wondered if the Prime Evil’s imprisonment would have any effect on the blood moon. He would’ve been more curious if it weren’t such a terrible possibility. 

He prowled on. Just how many ceremonies would he be able to disrupt this night? The nephalem was not so sure of himself to think he’d stop all of them. But he would certainly rain his own brand of destruction upon those he came across. 

The Moors were still ripe with blood and shadow and dark energies. 

Rathma had not yet been able to reach the Temple hidden beneath the grounds. The way was heavily barred, and the cultists here were awfully determined to protect whatever demon commanded them. (It must have been a demon - what else could bring such energy upon the lands? He just wasn’t sure which demon yet.) 

Hunting was easier without anyone else around. Companions could be a blessing, but most were rather question prone. “How are you doing that,” “What are you doing” “But that’s terrible” were always common commentary. Even when he stuck to the familiar magics of necromancy, there were always the questions and concerns. Let alone what he had planned this night. 

Rathma was in no mood to put up with the concern of nice, normal humans. He had nasty, abnormal humans to deal with, and someone like Tyrael or Lorath would only be a hindrance here. 

The angel had mercifully stopped inquiring about the physical nature of Rathma as a nephalem. He was not huma, he was mortal, and that could mean an awful many things. 

Being the first mortal meant he’d taken on many traits from his parentage. Both Inarius and Lilith had been able to alter themselves at will, and adjust to whatever their needs were. Rathma could too. He had eventually developed a body he preferred, but still the ability to change was his. 

And change he did.   


* * *

  
A human might have marvelled about how the thing streaking across the moorland moved somewhat like a very quick cat, or perhaps a lacuni. They would’ve been confused as to why it looked like a deer, but certainly did not move like one. They might have marvelled at the thick mane of dark hair covering its head and shoulders, or the glowing red horns framing it almost regally, or its long sinewy tail, outstretched for balance. 

Very few might have suspected the creature of being the forebear of humanity. 

The nephalem called Rathma did not look human, not even close. He had no reason to cram himself into that shape right now. His only purpose here upon the shadowy moors was to hunt.

He had been here before, fought these same cultists before, though not in such a beastly form. Doubtful that they might be able to connect the face of a necromancer with that of the veritable monster who brought their deaths. Necromancy had not been the most effective tool here. And so he’d changed up his strategy. 

A more base form for a more base task. Track. Hunt. Kill. 

It was not hard to find the first ritual, and Rathma knew there were many more. The blood-scent was thick, and the red-red-moon leant itself nicely towards illuminating the moors for him. He ran silently, but oh-so-quickly.

The Blood Cultists were wholly unprepared for the abrupt visitor to their ritual. So engrossed in the channeling of energies they were, that there was no warning of the beast’s coming. Only the thrum of power one moment, and the cold snap as it was relinquished the next. 

Their chants quickly turned to screams as death and horror overtook them. Claws and teeth flashed, and those who were not blinded by their own blood thought they saw pale skin, illuminated by the red of the moon, and the red of his horns. There was precious little time to try and fight back, but they had not been prepared, and their attacker he;d no mercy in his heart. The blood-scent drove him to violence, and the knowledge of what they were doing, why they were doing it, drove him to cruelty. 

None survived, and there would be no warning to the next ritual, or the next. 

It was a Blood Moon this night, a night of ritual and screaming and destruction. 

* * *

_"Beware the beast that hunts by the light of the Blood Moon."_


	23. Warm

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Tyrael discovers Autumn, and all the things that come with it.

During his many visits to Sanctuary, Tyrael had encountered just about every kind of weather the planet could throw out. From raging storms to the sweltering heat of the desert, to the bitter cold in the North. He was aware of how volatile Sanctuary’s weather was, and how its seasons and regions affected that weather. 

It had seemed fitting to him that the world where angels and demons had come together had such chaotic weather. Mortals had an innate ability to change and think and feel, and Tyrael thought their world reflected that. 

The majority of his weather experience had occurred when he was still an angel. Of course, he’d encountered several different biomes and weather patterns after his fall, but he’d yet to really experience a seasonal change. 

This, like everything else on Sanctuary, changed. 

The former angel was unprepared for how the chilling air made him shiver, and made his bones ache. How the days were damp and cool. There were some animals he started seeing less and less, for they fled to warmer grounds during this time. Tyrael did not expect the bright colors among the trees, but appreciated them nonetheless. 

It seemed that this seasonal shift had come almost overnight. 

The city of Westmarch seemed to alter itself with the seasonal change, and that alone was simply fascinating to witness. Being among the peoples of the city now allowed him to see so much more. Apparently, there were very specific customs tied to certain days in each month. Not every one observed them, and according to Rathma they changed regionally. But they were present, and they, too, brought Tyrael great interest. 

Most of the biggest customs seemed to be celebrations of sorts. Celebrations of the changes occurring on Sanctuary...Tyrael found them to be quite charming. 

Sanctuary was a world of change and growth, and its people reflected that. 

Other customs were smaller. There were some things only done during specific seasons out of practicality. One could not very well pile up leaves and jump into them when there were not leaves upon the ground to make a pile with. One really should not layer themselves with blankets during summer, for they might give themselves a heat stroke. 

During this time though, these things all became perfectly doable and desirable. Lorath had called it the ‘Fall’ season (and Tyrael had briefly been very concerned by what a name like that could mean.) Rathma called it Autumn, and Tyrael liked this name much better. 

Primarily, this was a season of preparation. Once the winters hit, the available foods would change and become scarcer. People needed things to keep themselves warm. They began stockpiling wood for fires, and coats and blankets and such things. Several of the Horadrim had been puzzling over winter-proofing the complex they currently called home. Just about all of them had been harassing Tyrael about wearing something to cover his head. Apparently, one’s head could easily be chilled, particularly when they did not have any hair upon it.   
The weather and customs and clothing were not the only things changing though. His nephew had been making himself scarce. 

When questioned about it, Rathma simply claimed he was busy, besides whatever he was doing to the old crypt-like home he’d introduced Tyrael to. Only later, after he’d hung around a little longer, did Tyrael begin to suspect he simply didn’t like the cold. 

More often than not he became sluggish, and did not want to venture out of the Horadric commune. He’d burrow himself up in his cloak and whatever blankets and/or pillows he’d managed to abscond with, and not move for several hours. The only time he’d willingly regain mobility was in order to slink closer to any fires that may have been lit. 

Tyrael supposed he could understand. The cold was not comfortable, and if one did not have to deal with it, why bother? And he had seen the kinds of places the nephalem usually called home; Aranoch, Kehjistan, jungle and desert. He seemed to prefer the heat, if he could. 

In general, Rathma had preferred not to be touched. However, now that it was the Fall season, humans made awfully good space warmers. Letting someone else use him as a living pillow was perfectly alright, so long as he could leach some heat off of them in turn.

The best place for such was in front of the fireplace. While it was a sizable hearth, Rathma was also a sizable creature. He curled himself up, yes, but between his own mass and that of all the quilts he’d dragged along with him, he covered most of the floor space. If one wanted to enjoy the fire, they had little choice but to also enjoy the nephalem’s company. 

The Horadrim seemed comfortable enough using him as a makeshift backrest. Between the heat of the fire and the warmth that they gave off, laying together was well worth it. 

Tyrael had decided that he, too, would partake in this sharing-of-warmth. 

He’d been out, experiencing Westmarch and all its strange decorations. Many seemed to be offering praise towards the harvest, and being a holy creature himself, Tyrael couldn’t help but stop and pray for or with many of them. This all meant that he’d been out in the damp, chilly air of Westmarch for some time, and he was thoroughly sapped of heat. 

Upon returning home, the fire was all too enticing. Where once before Rathma’s presence might have been a deterrence, it was now a welcome sight. 

Rathma had curled himself up in a way that might have made most people concerned, and a gymnast quite jealous. Nose tucked under his tail, hooves kicked out, he looked more to be made of rubber than flesh. But he did look warm. 

Mind made up, Tyrael settled himself against the blanket-pile. Rathma did not stir, though he had to have known Tyrael was there. The silence was companionable, broken by the crackling of the fire, and the sounds of the rest of the order going about their day elsewhere in the complex. 

Fall may have been a time of chill and change, but here by the fire, life was warm and cozy, and Tyrael decided that he quite liked this season indeed. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Kinda just guessing on when seasons happen on Sanctuary. Vasan appears to be the start of Spring, with Lunasadh being the "month of Harvest". I peg Autumn as starting during the month of Ratham (eyyy) and turning to winter during Solmoneth. This chapter, and the one before it, take place during Kathon. 
> 
> I could have this all totally backwards though lol. 
> 
> Just about everyone I talk to is getting Fall Feels already, so that had an influence on this chapter.


	24. Stripes

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The Horadrim get a cat.

Humans weren’t the only ones looking at less food during the colder months. Mice were seemingly manifesting out of thin air where there were grains to be found, and rats scurrying out of the Plague Tunnels. 

The pests were fortunately only coming in small numbers now, but Tyrael has been assured that more would show up unless they chased them away quickly. (And even then. The little scraps were very good at getting into things.)

Tyrael, of course, had no idea what to do about such tiny invaders. They were terribly good at evading him, and even when he did catch one he would, more often than not, simply release it outside. Rathma had himself a good laugh, watching his uncle chase the mice about. The Horadrim present had looked at each other, at the former angel (clumsy as ever) and the nephalem leaning casually against a wall. Said nephalem deftly scooped up the rodent when it scurried past, and promptly began taunting Tyrael with threats of eating the little thing. (He was probably joking. Probably.)

Well something would have to be done - moreseo about the plague-rats than anything. The last thing anyone needed to deal with right now was plague. Plus Rathma had all but forbade everyone from so much as sniffing at one. He had opinions about plagues, which left everyone wondering how pestilence became a practice in necromancy. 

And so, one morning when the red-orange leaves were blowing about, two of them had gone out and gotten a very special edition to their commune. 

Tyrael was reading through his brother’s journals again. Inarius had written precious few passages about the Autumn season, and each one made Tyrael’s heart ache all over again with longing. Thus, he was not paying attention to the excited whispers and cooing coming from down the hall. 

He did pay attention when something hissed behind him. Up above, he could hear the tell-tale shuffle of Rathma’s cloak, and the nephalem make a noise of curiosity. 

Turning about, Tyrael found...a small, fuzzy grey mammal with darker stripes. A fluffy tail flick-flick-flicked behind the creature, and triangular ears swivelled to and fro. It stared with green eyes up at the rafters where Rathma lurked. Rathma stared back. His own tail lashed once, before curling itself around the beam on which he perched. 

“What…?” Tyrael looked between the two, and felt the need to brace himself. Yes, Rathma was a logical being, but Tyrael wasn’t always certain what was logical to him and what wasn’t. And this little creature was an unknown. 

“Oh, you met Bentley. “ Lorath walked into the room, glancing up at Rathma curiously. He turned to Tyrael, pointed at the nephalem, looked confused. Tyrael just shrugged, Lorath shrugged back, and promptly scooped up Bentley. Rathma continued to stare. 

“What is...this Bentley?” Tyrael was enchanted with the little creature. Its fur looked luxuriously soft, and the stripes were quite a lovely pattern. 

“He’s a cat.” Lorath beamed at him as he strode over. “He’ll be our new pest control - I’m surprised you’ve never seen one before.” He gently patted the cat’s head, and it offered him a tiny purr in response. Tyrael did not take his eyes off the ‘cat’. 

“You can pet him too, you know. Just be slow and gentle.” Tyrael blinked up at Lorath, and cautiously reached out a hand. He could feel the cat’s breath as it sniffed his fingers, and he held perfectly still. Bentley promptly butted his head against the angel’s hand, and let out another purr. 

A smile worked its way onto his face. “Where did you find such a creature?” Tyrael asked. He continued to rub Bentley’s head, as delicately as he could. Lorath looked like he was trying to laugh, and Rathma was openly snickering from his spot. 

“A lady up the road was giving them away - she’d had kittens a few months back.” Lorath answered, and looked incredibly pleased with the situation. 

“And he will take care of the rats and mice?” Tyrael thought the cat didn’t look like it held some magical solution to their little issue. Lorath nodded though, and the cat continued to purr. 

“Cats are hunters.” Rathma chimed in. “They’re a common solution to an age-old problem.” He lounged lazily on one of the cross-beams, and Tyrael thought he and the cat were awfully alike at that moment. Both lying about decadently, and both apparently quite skilled at taking care of pests. 

Bentley was staring at the nephalem again, through slitted eyes. Tyrael hoped that the new cat wouldn’t take issue with Rathma.

“Well, I certainly approve of this creature’s presence.” The angel offered, still petting Bentley’s head. 

Lorath looked very triumphant indeed. “Wonderful!” and then he was trotting off down the hall, cooing at the cat all the while. Rathma was snickering again. 

* * *

As it turned out, Tyrael’s worries over how Bentley and Rathma would get along were unwarranted. 

The cat was indeed a good ratter, and kept the plague-rats away from their commune. It seemed to know not to eat them - or perhaps the Horadrim simply kept it well-fed enough that it didn’t bother. Tyrael carefully didn’t think about what happened after Bentley had caught a mouse, though. They were mercifully plague-free, and he continued to try and catch and release them when he could. 

Bentley seemed to be a perpetual hair-making machine. Somehow, this reminded Tyrael of his brother. 

The hair clung to everything and everyone, and sweeping it up became an added task to everyone’s daily chores. Personally Tyrael didn’t mind the fluff, but other members of the commune would sneeze profusely when exposed to too much. 

Bentley laid in just about everyone’s laps, or beds, or beside them while they worked. “Not all cats are so friendly,” Lorath had said. “But ours sure is.” 

Everyone came to include Rathma. 

The nephalem continued his habit of cocooning up for much of the day, and this was simply too irresistible for Bentley to pass up. Tyrael had to stop himself from laughing out loud whenever he found the two curled up together. (It wouldn’t do to wake them after all.) 


	25. Magic

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Tyrael wants to learn mortal magic. Rathma gets caught in the frey.

“I want to learn teleportation.” Was not how Rathma had expected to start his day. He blinked, glanced down at the mug of coffee in his left hand, debated chugging it, and looked back up at Tyrael. Taking a purposefully delicate sip, he stared. 

Tyrael did not seem deterred. He looked really quite serious about this. 

“You’ve a better grasp of mortal magics than anyone in Westmarch right now.” True. “And I’ve seen you transport yourself around before, so you must know how to do it.” Also true. “I used to be able to accomplish this as an angel, and doing so as a human would be quite beneficial to me.” Debatable, but debating the (former) Archangel of Justice was usually not a good idea.

Rathma continued drinking. Stared. Swallowed. Stared some more. Tyrael met his gaze, did not back down. 

A solid minute, during which Rathma enjoyed his caffeine and the marvels that it did for re-activating his brain, went by. 

“Okay.” The Nephalem spun around and headed for the courtyard in the middle of their commune. He snickered to himself when he heard the former angel sputter, and trot after him. “You should probably wear something protective.” He called over his shoulder. 

The courtyard was bright with the morning sun, and Rathma immediately located his favorite shady spot beside the old fountain to perch in while he waited for his uncle. Tyrael had taken his advice and gone to fetch his armor, and the Nephalem took this time to finish his coffee, and consider just how this might work. 

Magic worked differently for...just about everyone, let alone angels and mortals. From what he’d gathered, the different aspects of angels all channeled their energy in different ways, and the same could be said for the individual sub-species of demons. Stars knew that humans had found all manner of ways to access and utilize their magic, and it was oftentimes far removed from anything Rathma had ever done. 

This would be an interesting exercise, to say the least. 

Tyrael finally re-appeared, stretching as he went. Rathma had finished his coffee, and debated getting another cup. He might need it for this...

“What kind of elemental core do you have?” He asked, stalking forward to circle around Tyrael. “Pure Light? Fire?” 

“Lightning, with heavy leanings into Light.” Tyrael answered. He watched his nephew curiously. 

One corner of his mouth quirked up in a partial smile. “You’re lucky then.” Rathma came to a stop in front of Tyrael. “Most elements can’t accomplish true teleportation. Arcane, Void, and Lightning are some of the few that can.” Tyrael looked like he wanted to disagree, but thought better of it. Mortal magic was different from angelic magic, this he understood. 

Stepping forward, Rathma raised his hands, and delicately placed his fingers on the other’s temples. Tyrael, for his part, had frozen. It was very, very rare that Rathma allowed this direct physical contact between himself and anyone, let alone Tyrael himself. The nephalem was frowning, clearly concentrating on something.

He hummed, mumbled a few words under his breath. Tail flicked once, twice. Tyrael waited. 

“Okay. Okay…” Rathma continued to murmur to himself. “Strong core, underdeveloped pathways, different teachings…” He finally let go of the angel, and eyeballed him, before speaking directly to him. “This may take a while. You have raw potential, yes, but your body is...oh how to put this.” The nephalem turned away to pace a bit. Tyrael patted at his own temples, curious.

“If you had started your mortal life as a child or youth, you would have naturally developed your abilities.” Rathma tapped his lower lip in thought. “But you’re an adult angel in an adult body. Learning to bring those abilities out once you’ve matured is much trickier, much more strenuous on the body.” 

Tyrael nodded in rapt attention. Truthfully he hadn’t really been in control of how his mortal form had manifested. He hadn’t even known who he was at that point. Presumably, the angel had naturally taken on something equivalent to himself as he truly was. And Tyrael had been no child. 

“Furthermore,” Rathma went on, and gave his uncle a flat look. “Adult humans do not always learn well. They tend to assume they know everything, and end up hurting themselves in the process.” 

Tyrael just smiled impishly.“Sounds more akin to the angels.” 

“Demons too.” Rathma nodded in agreement. “Perhaps it is simply the fate of all being to assume they know everything.”

“Do you think you know everything?” Tyrael teased. 

“Of course I know everything.” Rathma sarcastically replied. “ Everything I need to know.And in terms of magic, I know enough to get you on the right path. You will not be teleporting anywhere today, so get that notion out of your head.”

Tyrael opened his mouth to protest, and was met with a mischievous look. “Today, you will try and bring power from your core forth, and control it. I must suggest we remove yourself from the vicinity of all other living creatures. You and I may be lightning proof, but most humans are not...” 


	26. Branch

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Tyrael thinks about life, Rathma drags the Horadrim into helping him catalog his massive family.

The commune was quiet, and Tyrael wasn’t entirely sure what to think about that.

It was rare for Tyrael to find himself with nothing on his plate. There was almost always some matter or another that needed his attention; if it wasn’t the Horadrim needing guidance, it was something that had gone wrong in Westmarch. If it wasn’t the city, then it was Rathma, with either some new dusty book to look over, or training in the magics that Tyrael had wanted to learn. 

At least that was going well. Mortal magic was very strange compared to angelic, but the basics were similar enough that Tyrael had caught on quick. 

Yes, caught on quick, and promptly blown himself across the clearing several times over. Currently, Rathma was trying to teach him more finesse and control. It would not due to explode oneself while attempting to transport, which he assured could happen. 

So they practiced, and Tyrael learned, and leant himself where he was needed. 

Really, he was quite sure he preferred it this way. Tyrael liked to keep himself busy, and stay on a task for as long as he could. He knew what he was doing when he was working. It was the down times that he wasn’t quite sure what to do with. 

Like now. No one was around, and while this in and of itself wasn’t wholly unusual, it was rather strange at this time of evening. Most of the Horadrim should have been back from their various missions by now. 

They had an unspoken rule about being back before dark. Not that they couldn’t handle themselves, but it was easier not to take chances that something would happen when everyone else was asleep. 

So, the commune should’ve been bustling with the group. They were almost twenty strong, discounting Tyrael and Rathma. 

Well, they should’ve been back, and if they weren’t, Tyrael needed to know why. He set off to search.

Turned out he need not have worried.

The Horadrim were all gathered in a cluster around the main living area. This could mean a lot of different things - many of them quite destructive. There were a lot of murmurings and whispers going around the group, not that Tyrael could pick up what they were saying. 

Politely shoving his way through, Tyrael stopped and stared. 

Rathma was seated on the floor with Lorath, and another of the horadrim. They were pouring intensely over several books and one large piece of paper. Every so often one of them would lean forward and jot something down. 

With a start, Tyrael realized it was an utterly massive family tree that they were mapping out. There were hundreds of names and lines tracking across the paper, spanning generations and generations. 

“Jacob Staalek was of both Kehjistani and barbarian descent, right Tyrael?” Lorath spoke up, not taking his eyes off the book he was rifling through. 

“That’s correct.” Tyrael crouched down to better read some of the names. His admission caused Rathma to look up and squint crossly at him. A shrug was his only response.

“Well,” Spoke up the third robed figure. “Back to the drawing board with that one.” And leaned forward to erase a few lines. 

“What exactly are you...doing?” He asked. 

“Trying to track down Rathma’s bloodline.” Lorath replied simply. “Not as easy as it looks. He uh. He had a big family.” The Horadrim points towards some lines at the top of the paper. Blinking, Tyrael shuffles over to read better. 

He’s vaguely surprised to find his own name on the paper - it wasn’t as though he had any other family other than those descended from Inarius. Beside Rathma’s name were several more, unfamiliar, rather demonic names. That Lilith had apparently had several more children out of...well he wasn’t sure wedlock was accurate, but the fact that the demoness had been so disloyal bothered him. 

Then again…

“You ah. Technically have siblings in Heaven.” Tyrael spoke up. And everything in the room seemed to grind to a halt. Rathma looked up, frowned at him. Lorath looked up, and kept looking up, at the ceiling. The other Horadrim shuffled about them all uncertainly. 

It was true - Inarius had participated in several joint lightsongs that led to knew angels. They carried bits of the angel’s resonance, and by the way angels counted them, they could be considered his children. 

They just also happened to be the children of a dozen other angels as well.

“I think we need a second page.” Finally, the third scribe spoke up nonchalantly. 

“It would come in handy if your uncles ever had any more children.” Lorath agreed with a slight laugh. Rathma wrinkled his nose in response. 

“One cousin was plenty, and I never even got to meet her.” The nephalem spoke crossly. Tyrael winced at such a casual mention of Leah. And, privately agreed - Heavens forbid they ever encounter one of Baal’s spawn, let alone another of Diablos, or Mephistos...

“We can deal with that later. Now, you’re sure that’s all your grandchildren there?” Tyrael knew he’d chosen that scribe well when he’d brought them on. Very on task, very good at staying organized. “Because this account of a feathered man on a wyvern in the south sounds an awful lot like your son, and he apparently stuck around long enough to raise a few more crotch-spawn…”

And so the conversation went. 

Tuning them out, Tyrael continued to read the family tree. There was Inarius and Lilith, of course. Rathma and all his demonic half-siblings. The nephalem himself had...more children than he would have expected. And not necessarily from the same partner. 

Tracing the lines, eventually he found the ones that linked to Uldyssian and Mendeln. Their line ended with them, and Tyrael found that to be a little bit sad. At least Rathma knew of their legacy, but they’d had no family to carry their names on. 

After all they’d done for Sanctuary, Tyrael thought it was a shame that everyone had forgotten them. 

But then, it was the angels who had ensured everyone would forget. Start over, a clean slate. They had said. Give them a chance. Erase their history. 

Guiltily, he looked over at Rathma, who was still shuffling a few documents around. He had wanted to know more of Sanctuary’s history, not realizing he was part of the reason it was forgotten in the first place. 

Rathma looked up at him, face blank as ever. 

The firstborn may remember. Their time will soon be up. The words hissed in the back of his mind like Mephisto himself was still speaking. 

Already his proficiency at maintaining historical records had been shown - it was happening right in front of Tyrael as Lorath wrote down two more names. Rathma had to remember that day. Had to have known that the reason so much of his culture was lost was due to the meddling of angels. 

And he’d shared his history anyway. Tyrael blinked, and Rathma went back to what he was doing. 

He supposed the nephalem probably wanted as many to remember as possible. If one of them happened to be an angel, well… so be it. This time, Tyrael would make sure that Sanctuary’s past would be known, and preserved. 

He felt he owed it to all the names branching across the paper, across time, across generations. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Y'all can't convince me that the son of Lilith, Queen of the Succubi, and Inarius, the original monster-fucker extraordinaire, did not also lead one hell of a prolific sex-life.


	27. Glimmer

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sometimes its nice to just sit back and enjoy a good rainstorm every now and again.

There were upsides to sleeping under a proper roof. Sure, the roof of a cave could potentially hold far more safety, and more places to hide. (Though it could also come down on you at any moment.) They typically did not carry sound from the surface though. 

The longer he stuck around, Rathma found he was starting to enjoy the roof of the house in Westmarch. There were just enough spaces to hide oneself away, both in the beams and the attic. The roof kept the elements off of him, as all good roofs should, and it carried sound oh-so-nicely. He could hear the birds, the whistle of wind, and all the many many leaves it carried onto their roof.

Getting closer to the ceiling meant getting closer to whatever was going on above. 

Rathma had been napping up in the attic that he’d yet to tell Tyrael or the Horadrim about. Really if they were going to live somewhere, it was their job to ferret out all its hidden nooks and crannies. No, for now the attic was his to enjoy, and it put him nice and close to that wooden roof with its clay shingles. 

Now, on most days, there wasn’t much too miraculous about such a design. Today though. Today, while dozing, Rathma thought he heard the telltale rumble of thunder in the distance. It roused him just enough.

A storm was rolling in. This was more than enough to wake him up, and encourage him into a better spot to listen. 

The rains did not disappoint. 

They hissed across the land, gentle at first and bringing a forceful wind with them. The air grew thicker with moisture, and outside little droplets began to fall. They were few at first, but quickly, their numbers grew and grew until there was an impressive drone against the building. Rathma lent himself up next to some shutters, heard the raindrops plink against them. Felt himself relax, and begin to doze once more

If there was one thing upon Sanctuary that had never let him down, it was the comforting pitter-pat-pitter of a rainstorm.

There was a reason the Necropolis was located in the jungles of Kehjistan. For all the arrogant magi wanted to believe it was to be closer to their orders, the real reason was far more mundane than that. Rathma liked rain. And there was lots of rain in the jungle. 

It had always helped him relax, meditate, and even sleep properly when he needed it. Who could say why. If he bothered to think back, Rathma couldn’t pin-point the exact time when the rains became so cherished. He simply knew that he liked them, and that was more than enough for him. 

Finding his cloak-mimic had been one of the greater boons of his life. It did not mind the weather so long as it had access to his rich, life-giving blood. Rathma was well-protected from any kind of snow or rain, for the cloak did not absorb any of the water. Of course he had whole-heartedly taken advantage of this. 

No one else was ever out in the rain. Humans and animals alike all sheltered up, not wanting to be exposed to the skies fury. 

That fury did not bother Rathma though. 

There was plentiful rain in Westmarch, though not quite as much as in the far East. It was a cold rain - one could not stay out in it for long. For all his cloak protected him from being wet, there wasn’t much it could do about raw temperature. If Rathma didn’t have such distaste for the cold he might have gone out to properly enjoy this particular storm. As it was, he simply laid back, and listened. His cloak fluttered once, and wrapped itself tightly against him. 

If he focused hard enough, he could almost imagine the individual crystal-like beads of water like falling from the sky. The way they fell, and splashed harmlessly against the clay-shingles, or the streets below. There was an abrupt crackle-flash of lighting, and he knew it had illuminated the rains quite magnificently. Thunder boomed overhead, shaking the very wall he lounged against. Magnificent. 

Many found storms to be frightful, or dreary, or even awful. Rathma supposed he could understand why on a surface level, but really he just thought they’d never had a chance to really appreciate all that the rain was. 

It brought life, it brought sound, it brought a change to the status quo. 

If sunny days were for being physically active among the wilds, then rainy days were for lazing around in the confines of society. Beneath him, Rathma could pick up on the Horadrim bustling about, making sure their home was sealed against the rains. If he focused, he could pick out the gleam of fierce light that was Tyrael, also making sure everything was set. 

Rathma snorted. It was all fine and good to be weather-proofing the house, but he thought they were missing one hell of a show. He couldn’t really blame them - houses were better off dry - but still. There was something to be appreciated about someone who could simply stop and admire for a few minutes. 

Lighting flashed again outside, illuminating the attic and making the raindrops glitter like a million tiny diamonds. Yes, there was one hell of a show going on right now indeed. 


	28. Shreds

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Rathma is not human, and does not fight like it.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Gore and Blood warning for this chapter! Descriptions of cultists getting mauled by a rampaging nephalem!

Rathma was not human. Tyrael knew this, had known this, understood this better than most ever could. 

(He was not human either, not truly.)

He and his Horadrim had come to terms with what the old necromancer was long ago. At least, on the surface they had. It wasn’t like it was hard to accept Rathma with the way he behaved around them. Honestly he acted more like a giant version of Bentley than an ancient being of blood and fire. He lounged about by the fireplace and read books for hours and ate one of the pumpkins they’d decorated their dwelling with. For as fierce as he looked, he never made anyone of them feel unsafe.

Tyrael suspected that part of this had to do with how few of them had witnessed him in a battle. None but Lorath had seen him fight during the attacks against the reapers, and even then he had been very tame. Very proper, very careful. He had stuck to his spells and his skeletons. While grisly and gruesome, it was no more awesome and terrifying than what the barbarians of demon hunters did. 

Without the neo-nephalem around though, it seemed he was less inclined towards fighting in such a...coherent way. 

One chilly desert evening, when the sun had just about set and the landscape began to lose its heat, Tyrael discovered this for himself. His breath billowed out before him, and El’Druin gleamed in his hands reassuringly. The air was full of steam, and the chants and shrieks of men.

Squashing down the rising horror, Tyrael continued to cut through the skin and bone arrayed before him. Nearby, he did not hear or see so much as feel one of Rathma’s spells go off. He ignored the red mist that followed that abrupt flash of power. 

It was ignore it or be sick, really. 

Rathma was no human, and if he didn’t have to, he did not fight like one. Long ago, when Tyrael had first met the ancient nephalem, he had noticed his less-than-solid appearance, and how easily he’d shifted to suit his needs. Of late, he’d had no need for anything other than the usual semi-humanoid form he usually bore. On this night however, he had need of that which would grant him the capabilities for violence and death. 

He had finally come to Tyrael with the truth of what was beneath the moors, and they had brought themselves here to take care of it all. They had a job to do, Tyrael had a job to do, and he wasted time with his musings. Onto the next opponent.

Parry-swipe-Thrust! And another man went down, nearly cleaved in two. Tyrael moved on. They needed to reach the entrance to the Temple of the Firstborn, as Rathma had called it. (It was all too clear he didn’t want to talk about it or involve anyone else, but he alone could not deal with what lay beneath.)

A low call that he’d come to recognize as coming from his nephew sounded out, and out of the corner of his eye he spotted the mess of black and white and red that was Rathma. 

Pale limbs gripped a man tightly, and he spat frantic words of power before a spear-like tail ran him through completely. His spell died without the air to complete it, and he died shortly thereafter. Onto the next victim, this time with a spray of blood and viscera and bone fragments. They pelted over the cultists converging over them, felling not a few. 

Tyrael’s attention was re-focused as a curved dagger came much too close for comfort, and he kicked out blindly. Thus, battle was rejoined. 

They could’ve fought for hours or minutes. Tyrael felt himself surrender to the heat of battle, let his mortal-mind be overtaken by the thrill his angel-self once felt. His attacks became smooth, and lightning flicked from his sword and fingers. Around him, Rathma lashed out with blood and claw and death. 

There was no Blood Moon this night, but by the Heavens there was blood spilt nonetheless. 

And then it was over, and there were no more foes. Tyrael stood, gasping, staring at the charred and torn remains around him. Rathma perched nearby, up on one of the crumbling statues that littered the grounds. He stared down at the former angel with red-red eyes, and Tyrael had never before noticed how bright and unsettling they really were, set in that pale, sharp face. The nephalem did not speak, but Tyrael thought there may have been some admiration in the way he looked at him. 

Rathma did not linger, but hopped down and slunk off to the next battle. It was utterly unnerving the way he moved like some sort of feline or...or even a demon. Humans and angels did not prowl. They did not stalk about on four limbs, but then, they did not have hooves and tails and limbs that could stretch into whatever was best for stalking. 

(That was okay, Tyrael supposed. Rathma was not human after all.) 

He ran after the nephalem, an electric charge building about him as they moved. The air was growing frigid, and Tyrael briefly worried that Rathma might become sluggish, as he did whenever he came to Westmarch. His pace only quickened though, and they were all but sprinting towards the dark crag that would lead them down to the temple below. 

Tyrael could feel it now, the pull and call and taint of something evil beneath the dried earth upon which they ran. No wonder Rathma had been so troubled by this place; whatever was here was nearly as old as Tyrael. 

It had to be a demon lord. But which one?

* * *

The deeper they went into the dark temple, the worse Tyrael felt about the place. It was called the Temple of the Firstborn, yes, but the walls and halls were adorned with depictions of a beautiful demonic woman. One that looked eerily similar to the nephalem with which he fought beside. 

Rathma barely seemed to acknowledge the building, save for using it as leverage whenever he needed to jump down on some poor unsuspecting thing that got in their way. Tyrael wondered what memories he was suppressing. 

Neither of them spoke, save the rare hiss of words of power. The King of Necromancy did not favor his own magic though. Almost every foe was met with the slash of claws, the whip of a tail, or the snap of too-strong teeth. The nephalem simply tore his enemies apart, and Tyrael followed in his bloodstained wake. 

When he wasn’t focusing on the horrors in front of him, Tyrael was glancing up furtively at the walls around them.

His brother’s handiwork was all to recognizable. Inarius always did have a flair for the dramatic, and he’d apparently applied that whole-heartedly to the creation of this place. (Just what had it represented to the angel? Tyrael longed to know, even if he could make some guesses of his own.) Knowing he walked where his sibling once tread was doing strange things to his heart, but Tyrael had bigger things to worry about. 

Apparently there was another level to the place, and it already reeked with blood-scent so strong it sent Tyrael’s mind back to his first few days as a mortal on Sanctuary. 

All this he could accept and deal with, if not for what being down here seemed to be doing to Rathma. He wondered if it was the Temple itself, or the presence of the cultists within the Temple that was driving the normally-calm and cautious being to such violence and cruelty. 

The nephalem looked unhinged. Each battle, each death was bloodier than the last. A few times, Tyrael had dodged out of the way of a spell or slash of that tail, and he didn’t think his nephew even noticed. At this point he barely even needed to participate in the fights, and Tyrael was starting to suspect the real reason the old nephalem had wanted him here. 

Who's to say Rathma could stop himself once they reached the demon lord?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Better watch out Vidian, Lilith's murder-baby is coming for ya. Poor Tyrael, he didn't sign up for this.


	29. Exhaustion

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Tyrael begins to have doubts about his nephew after their adventures in the moorlands.

Monsters. The words echoed unpleasantly in Tyrael’s mind. The nephalem were monsters. He looked down at the one, the last of them, currently using his leg as a chin rest. Rathma...well, he unfortunately looked the part, even now. 

Thick, ebony-black hair, smooth and curved snout, glowing horns...red eyes…they all served to make his appearance that much more fearsome. Nevermind the claws Tyrael knew were folded neatly somewhere beneath him. Nevermind the cloven hooves, which had shifted and changed into razor-sharp talons as needed, tucked against his side. Nevermind the whip-like tail, which looked so innocuous now, but Tyrael had seen him impale dozens of hapless victims with. 

Inhuman was an understatement. Rathma was practically demonic. 

Tyrael hissed to himself, and shook his head. No, he knew that wasn’t the case. Really, he should know better. 

Rathma was an even mix of angelic and demonic. 50/50. If he weren’t it would’ve been abundantly clear. He was Nephalem, and that was all there was to it. Unfortunately, it just so happened that the nephalem weren’t as...docile as Tyrael had believed.

(He hadn’t forgotten Inarius’s purge of the forebears of humanity. Hadn’t forgotten, and hadn’t understood, until now.) 

The nephalem was asleep, had been for the last four days now, and Tyrael was thankful he wasn’t awake to feel the troubled thoughts in his head. Their awful work in the Temple of the Firstborn had apparently sapped most of Rathma’s strength, and he had mumbled something about ‘enforced hibernation’ before simply collapsing on his uncle. It was a good thing Tyrael himself possessed inhuman strength - Rathma was much heavier than he looked. He’d brought them both back to the commune. Cleaned the blood off best he could (was thankful when his charge briefly awoke and used some necromancer spell to simply pull all the blood from their clothing.) Only told the Horadrim that they had dealt with the threat in the Moors. Swore not to say another word about it. 

And Rathma had slept. At times Tyrael thought he might’ve been dead were it not for the telltale rise-and-fall of his chest. Aside from a flick of his tail and flicker of the horns above his head every now and again, he did not stir. Tyrael had dropped him on the couch in the main room near the fireplace, and let him be. 

The Horadrim voiced their worries, and it was all Tyrael could do to shrug and make guesses. Well, he was certain the nephalem would be fine - would wake up eventually. He just had no idea when. 

Concern, of multiple types, drove him to hang around the main room more often. Concern for Rathma. What he would think, what he would do. What he had to say for himself…

That wasn’t entirely fair, Tyrael knew. The necromancers as an order had been active almost since the Day of Judgement. Rathma himself, he knew, had been active far longer. Faced much more than any other mortal alive. Had he not kept loyal to his ideals of balance all this time? It would’ve been out of character for him to do anything that could upset that balance. 

Vidian had been the one upsetting things. The Lord of Envy had died screaming rage and blood, as both bone-spear and El’Druin ran him through. Belatedly, Tyrael wondered if the demon had been able to work his infernal influence on Rathma as well. He knew well how that particular demon operated, and he was not a simple foe to deal with. Vidian wove deceit, mistrust and treachery into his enemies, made them turn on one another. 

Rathma had not turned on him...but Tyrael had thought he might, for a time. 

And yet...here they were, in the middle of Westmarch, laying on a couch together. The threat had been dealt with, and they both lived to tell the tale. As unnerving as he appeared, Rathma did not look like a threat right now. He looked tired. 

Tyrael certainly felt tired too; physically and mentally. He had given his all in the battle against the blood cultists, and his mortal body began to tire out much easier than his angelic soul did. It recovered quickly too though. 

Mentally was a different matter. He kept dreaming of all the carnage, and the thick blood-scent. Kept seeing the nephalem in the Temple of the Firstborn turning on him, red in his eyes, his mouth, on his claws. Every time he woke up gasping and clutching at his heart. 

They weren’t real. Tyrael knew this. If Rathma wanted him dead, he would be dead, plain and simple. 

It was an awful thing to be thinking about, but the former angel found he couldn’t help it. Even with the proof of his nephew’s innocence literally in his lap, he couldn’t shake the unpleasant thoughts. He knew Rathma wouldn’t hurt him, knew he fought for the good of Sanctuary. He feared him anyway. 

Was it because he was a human-angel, or an angelic-human? Tyrael couldn’t say. Would another man have feared the nephalem as he now did? He couldn’t say. Would another angel? 

Okay that one he could answer. Imperius would not have thought twice about incinerating Rathma and being on his way. Even Auriel probably would have put him down when things got too bloody. Inarius’s purge of the ancient nephalem made an awful lot of sense now that Tyrael had really seen one in action. A planet full of the monstrous creatures could’ve created such carnage…

Rathma’s tail flicked once, and flopped onto the ground with a thwump, but he did not wake. Tyrael stared down at him, heart thudding in his chest.

Angrily, Tyrael stamped that line of thought out. Rathma was not a creature, he was a person, and Tyrael knew that. He shouldn’t be letting his fears run away from him like this. Were angels not just as capable of such destruction after all? Malthael certainly had been. 

So what if Rathma sometimes fought like an animal. What really mattered was who he was fighting, not how.

Tyrael kept insisting that to himself. But his heart was still uncertain. 


	30. Pumpkin

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Gourds bring the whole house together. Really they do.

It was just too hard to stay wary of Rathma. Tyrael found himself instinctively relaxing around his nephew as the days went on. Honestly, he wasn’t a threat. 

It helped watching him interact with the Horadrim. Their relief was almost physically palpable when Rathma finally came out of his week of being completely immobile. Even Tyrael had been starting to doubt that the nephalem really would recover, but then he’d gotten up like nothing had ever happened. 

What also helped was the apparent beginning of a new seasonal tradition; obtaining various types of gourd, and displaying them. Tyrael had at first thought it a show of wealth, but soon concluded that it was simply a show of decorating. Those with more gourds, bigger gourds, and the most colorful gourds seemed to be the ‘winners’ of the ritual. However, those who only had a few were still admired. 

Lorath was very insistent on dragging Tyrael off to go obtain more gourds. While they were not officially being paid for their work, slaying demons and investigating claims of hauntings was shockingly lucrative. They had coin to spare, and pumpkins to obtain. 

The sheer multitude of gourd-types was starting to make Tyrael’s head spin. As an angel, it was rare to encounter so many different types of one thing. Usually when they got it right once, they went that way forever. 

But here, every time he thought he’d seen every kind of gourd to see, more would pop up. 

It made him laugh aloud whenever someone brought him yet another kind of pumpkin or squash. He could almost picture his brother weaving them all into existence, probably trying to come up with ones stranger than the last. (And by the light there were some strange ones). Just one more thing to love about the world that angels and demons had created together - it’s diverse flora. 

More than one occasion found the former angel simply sorting through all the squash they’d obtained. The Horadrim had taken to displaying them inside their home as well, and Tyrael decided he quite liked this new tradition of obtain-and-show-off. 

Tyrael also discovered, purely by chance, that Rathma apparently liked the gourds too. For an entirely different reason. 

It had not occurred to Tyrael that the gourds were all edible. 

It wasn’t as though the nephalem were consistently taking-and-eating all the pumpkins and squash, which made it that much harder to catch him in the act. No, he apparently preferred to take one at random, skulk off somewhere, and chow down. 

(Tyrael tried taking a bite out of a raw mini-pumpkin, and did not understand how Rathma was possibly enjoying eating these things.)

The first time Lorath caught their resident nephalem in the act of gourd-snatching, he had chased him down the halls, shouting and shaking his fists all the way. Watching his nephew simply run away from the young man, Tyrael felt any remaining worries in his heart fade. Rathma had a good heart in him. He was not a threat - unless you were a pumpkin it seemed. 

It became a form of entertainment for their little commune. Several of them had bets going on of which gourds would get taken next, if Lorath could get to them in time, and whether or not Rathma would eventually stop. Tyrael did not participate, but he did enjoy their enthusiasm. Really, they had so many of the decorative squashes that taking one or two wasn’t that big of an issue. He was quite sure both nephalem and human were simply having fun at this point.

To Tyrael’s delight, he discovered that the pumpkins and squashes were far more tastier when properly prepared. He’d tasted apple pie before, but the texture had left something to be desired for him. (Though the smell had been utterly divine.)

Pumpkin pies though. This, he was quite sure upon tasting, was probably his new favorite food. Just the right amount of spice, and they stayed together nicely on the fork. He still would probably never understand his nephew’s preference for raw pumpkin, but baked pumpkin was simply too good to be true. 

Tyrael was quickly deciding he liked all these new gourd-based traditions. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Is anyone else's house completely covered in little gourds yet?


	31. Lass

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Tyrael almost gets asked on a date, but doesn't know what to do about it.

  
“I believe someone was attempting a pre-courting activity with me.” Tyrael declared. Beside him, Rathma nibbled on a bit of dried fish, and switched between eyeballing him, and eyeballing the streets below. They’d scaled one of the still-standing art galleries to get away from Westmarch’s crowded streets, and the nephalem had decided this was the perfect time for a snack. At least it wasn’t another of Lorath’s mini-pumpkins. 

People bustled along below, unaware of the two watchers upon the gallery. 

“What makes you say that?” The nephalem blandly asked around a mouthful of fish. 

“She was very insistent that I dance with her. Would not let go of my hand.” Tyrael replied, pulling a leg up onto his perch. He had never before experienced the fear of heights. His human instincts kept warning him about the dangers of falling from here, however. 

“Well did you?” Rathma continued to munch. 

“Hm?”

“Did you dance with her?” 

“Oh...well, for a moment yes. But then I...stopped.” Tyrael’s leg went down again, and he rubbed his hands together. His cheeks were getting warm. “I thought she was going to ask for something else, but I don’t think I could’ve given it to her.” He looked up when Rathma let out a huffy laugh. The ancient thoughtfully chewed his fish before swallowing and fixing Tyrael with an amused stare.

“She probably just wanted to go on a date Tyrael, nothing so scandalous.” An affectionate punch to the arm nearly made Tyrael lose his balance, and he glared over at his nephew. “And even if she did want something a little more physical, I’m sure you’re more than capable if you wanted to.” 

Former Archangel of Justice he may be, but there were still some things that made even him balk and turn back and question. Mortal courting habits were one of those things. Tyrael looked away to stare down at the streets again, feeling unaccustomedly shy. Rathma probably would understand his situation better than most might, but it still felt terribly awkward to talk about it. 

“Is that...even allowed?” Tyrael ponderously asked. 

“Is what allowed?” 

“If I wanted to have...a relationship...with a mortal. Is that allowed?” The question felt a little silly even as he asked, but Tyrael figured if anyone would know the answer, it would be the being beside him. 

“Of course it’s allowed.” Rathma pulled out another strip of fish to nibble at. “You can love whoever you want Tyrael, so long as they are mature and consenting...oh. Is it your age that brings such questions?” 

“What? Oh, n-no, I hadn’t even thought of that.” Tyrael resting his cheek in one palm. “It just feels like- well, since I’m not actually a human-” 

Rathma suddenly smacked at his back. Not enough force to knock him off the building, but it did starle him. The nephalem continued patting at him a few times, before going back to his monching. Tyrael glared mutinously at him. Rathma simply smiled that wicked smile of his. 

“Hm, nope, still no wings back there. At this point, you’re more human than I am Tyrael.” He offered. “You’re at least the right shape and size, and you’re got all the right limbs. I say again, so long as they are of a mature age and give their consent, and so long as you want to, you can date and love whoever you want.” Not that he wouldn’t tease the hell out of his uncle if he did find someone to share affections with, but as far as he was concerned there wasn’t anything illegal about it. 

Tyrael thought this over, humming. “What if I...don’t necessarily want to?” His voice seemed a little bit small. Rathma side-eyed him for a brief moment, still chewing his snack. 

“Then you don’t have to.” The nephalem said simply. “You’re not obligated to anyone. Both parties need to give consent, and if you don’t want to, then you’re not consenting and don’t have to.” 

This idea seemed novel to his uncle, and Rathma took the time to finish his fish. Absently, he noted the hilarity of the situation. Here he was, explaining the matters of courting and sex and love to his uncle, who was stil his elder by millennia. He wondered absently how the renegades had ever managed to reproduce if this was what they’d been dealing with. His mother must’ve been very determined indeed. 

A quiet snort of laughter escaped the nephalem. It was really quite funny that Lilith had wanted him so badly, but they’d ended up hating one another so much. Ironic, or something. 

“What’s funny?” Tyrael asked, looking borderline distressed. 

“My parents.” Rathma answered honestly. “Just- everything about their relationship gets more ridiculous the older I get.” He snickered again, and Tyrael blinked owlishly at him. Finally he smiled, and looked back down at his lap. 

“Humans...often pair with the opposite gender, yes?” He asked. 

“Well, yes. But they pair with other genders too.” Rathma leaned back on his hands, tilting his face against the setting sun. It felt nice. “Personally I think everyone should be able to love whoever the hell they want. It’s nobody’s business but yours who you end up with.” To his surprise, this seemed to cheer the former angel up. 

“Then, there are no restrictions?” 

“Well someone might bitch at some point, but they should be largely ignored.” Rathma waved a careless hand. “Humans get pretty opinionated when they disapprove of something.” 

Tyrael’s face fell. “Who would disapprove of something like love?” 

“Who disapproved of angels and demons?” Rathma gently shot back. Tyrael winced a bit, but didn’t back down. “There’s always someone out there. Some bigot or another who thinks they’ve got the right to tell you who you can or cannot be with. Personally I always dealt with that by doing whatever they disapproved of harder.” His smile was a little bit fiendish, and Tyrael got the message of what he would do loud and clear. 

“I understand, I think.” The former angel nodded, looking thoughtful. 

The both of them sat in companionable silence for a bit. Rathma lounged against the marble overhang on which they sat, and Tyrael leaned forward to rest his chin on his hands, and elbows on his knees. He had been right to bring this up with Rathma. As impersonal as he could be, the nephalem still understood mortal’s better than he did. He understood being something separate from a human too. 

“Do you think she’d still be interested?” Tyrael asked suddenly. Rathma looked over at him with a ‘hm?’ “The woman. Do you think-?”

“Oh, perhaps. I’m not an expert on what a woman wants Tyrael, but you can always try and see.” His tail batted lazily at the air a few times. The autumn sun was making him drowsy. 

“I think I am curious about how humans court.” The former angel declared. He stood up, and began cautiously making his way back to the hidden stairway that had led them up there. 

“Good, good.” Rathma nodded sleepily. “Don’t break too many hearts now. I’m reasonably sure you’re considered terribly attractive by human standards.” He grinned at the sound of his uncle’s sputtering. 

Honestly, the odds were it would be Tyrael himself finding a bit of heartbreak, but that was just how it went for a human. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello yes, being a queer artist and writer myself, these things tend to come up in my work. Love who you love, it is solely up to you, and life is too short not to enjoy it when it comes.


	32. Stiff

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sometimes Rathma wakes up in weird places, and that does his spine no favors.

As he came to, Rathma immediately regretted whatever it was he’d been thinking the night before. He knew better than to sleep outside, when it was cold, and when it was going to rain. Really he did.

Not that he really felt either of those things. His cloak had done an admirable job as ever keeping him protected from the elements. His skin was perfectly dry, and only the tips of his fingers and tail were cold. No, the feeling was much more bone-deep than that. His joints cracked and popped audibly, and muscles protested angrily as the nephalem pushed himself up from where he lay. 

Rathma thought this may have been a sign that he was getting old. Just maybe. 

Taking stock of where he was, the ancient nephalem decided that it was a very good thing he tended not to move when he slept; he’d come to rest at the top of the Zakarum Cathedral. His tail dangled over the edge of an almost forty foot drop, swaying gently whenever there was a breeze. Around his makeshift sleep-spot, scaffolding creaked and groaned ominously. It must’ve been very early morning, for no one was around. 

Now he remembered; he’d been unsettled last night. In the past, he’d always been able to go and share his troubles with Trag’Oul. 

The dragon wasn’t around anymore, and did not seem to be coming back. In his place, the stars were a good enough replacement. They could not whisper back their perspective or wisdom, if they had any, but they were familiar and eternal, and that had been enough. 

There were several towers taller than the church, but most were unfortunately filled and surrounded with people. No one has been in the Zakarum Cathedral at that hour though. Its bell tower had made a fine perch for airing one’s grievances to the sky. 

Of course, at no point had Rathma intended to fall asleep while star-gazing. Oh well. 

Sitting up, Rathma swung his legs to dangle over the edge. Peering down, his mouth pressed into a grim line. Yes, a fall from this height would’ve almost certainly killed him. Maybe he would’ve landed on a tombstone if he fell in the right direction - he was overlooking the noble’s graveyard. 

It would've been ironic, at the least. 

Glancing around, he decided it was probably a good idea to get off the church’s bell-tower. His limbs continued to protest with spikes of pain as he stood, and began clamoring on down. The shingles were soft enough to sink his clawed fingers into for grip, and his hooves were excellent for steep angles. Angling his tail for balance, Rathma reassembled a giant possum rather than anything humal. It was probably a good thing no one was around to see him at the moment. He was not in the mood to get screamed at. 

Despite the radical difference in architecture, the church still reminded him very much of his father’s old Cathedral. Even the teachings of ‘Zakarum’, from what he’d heard, bore great likeness to Inarius’s doctrine. It made Rathma wonder if there was anything else the religions had in common…

There were tales that the so called ‘Zakarum Faith’ had been started at the behest of an angel. Others believed that the angel was actually Uldyssian. Having actually met the man in question, Rathma was incredibly doubtful. Uldyssian had been a lot of things, but a church-head was not one of them. 

But then, was there really another angel? 

It irked him that the celestials couldn’t seem to keep out of mortal business, despite the fact that they were the ones who had deemed it so. Maybe they meant well, like Tyrael, or Eirena’s prophet. Maybe it was just another grab for power. Rathma was still of the opinion that, either way, Heaven and Hell should simply leave Sanctuary alone. 

Hopping to the ground, Rathma found himself in the shadow of the church, and looked up. The sun was rising just above the roof now, and something about the sight made both his hearts stutter. 

It reminded him terribly of Inarius. Terribly so. 

Unwilling to face such things this early, Rathma turned and fled the church grounds. So much for finding comfort in this place - all he'd found was a pain in the neck. 


	33. Pining

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> There's something in the forest, and something in the water. Rathma wants nothing to do with either, so of course both are made his problem.

There was something in the woods. 

Well, this was a given fact. Lots of things could be found in the forests surrounding Westmarch. Years and years had passed, and Rathma still hadn’t quite managed to see everything that lived within them. 

Right now in particular, there was something...calling to him. Perhaps someone. Someone in the woods. 

The call had begun at seemingly random. Its presence had been unnoticeable at first, but steadily gotten louder and louder. Rathma had taken note of it, kept tabs on it, and hoped it would go away on its own. 

When it didn’t he suspected there might be trouble. While the call didn’t feel malicious, it was certainly out of the ordinary, and things that were out of the ordinary on Sanctuary were rarely less than trouble.. If something had his attention, it was always for a reason. Although, he supposed he wasn’t entirely certain if the source of the disturbance...actually wanted his attention. It may have been an overstatement to say that he was being called, but rather that a call was being broadcasted.

Regardless of intent, the fact remained that somewhere in the chilly forests was a new presence. He could sense it, taste it on his tongue, feel it. For reasons he did not know, it fascinated him. Someone was out there, and while they may not have been trying to get his attention, they certainly had it. 

The urge to investigate this strange...stranger, grew with each passing day. It was not a loud presence, but it was constant. Blocking it out was becoming a chore. 

Rathma did not particularly care for dedicating so much effort into ignoring something. He much preferred to face things, deal with and be done with them. Additionally, whatever this particular thing was, it did not care to hide itself in the slightest, at any given moment. Like it wanted someone to come out and...deal with it. 

Unfortunately for it, Rathma had become a busy nephalem of late. 

While they had been enjoying a short bit of peace after Vidian’s defeat, something else had arisen. Whatever this particular threat was had been haunting Westmarch’s northwestern docks, and making the way treacherous for any sailors or fishermen. The city could not exactly afford any more drain on its food supply. Once they’d determined that the threat was of supernatural origin, the city's watchmen had been quick to go to Tyrael for aid. 

And of course, the angel had readily promised them to take care of it. Nevermind that he had no idea what he was getting himself into. Several of the Horadrim had been sent out to investigate, and they would make their move once they knew more.

Given his recently developed care for the former angel’s general well-being, Rathma had been roped into the mess too. He vaguely remembered old tales of rituals gone horribly awry from Westmarh’s coasts. Cursed Islands were an unfortunately common occurrence though, and Rathma simply didn't have the time or desire to deal with them all. The only reason this one was getting any attention was all the issues it was causing with his current home and people.

Rathma hoped it would be quickly dealt with. The forest’s call was getting louder. 

If Rathma seemed irritable about the whole situation, Tyrael was downright ornery. The former-angel paced about and had thrown himself at the issue with gusto. Apparently, the lack of progress was bothering him too, although for perhaps a different reason than his nephew. 

Idly, a mental note to discover what had Tyrael all out of sorts was made. Not that Rathma really wanted anything else to worry about, but his mood was starting to be affected by his uncle’s. 

All in all, there were too many things pulling at him right now. Ideally, they’d deal with the island, Rathma would deal with whatever was in the forest, and Tyrael’s issues would sort themselves out too. Not that things were typically ideal, but he could certainly hope for it. 

While he waited for the Horadrim to return with their findings, all he could do was wait, and listen. 


	34. Waves

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> There's something wicked in the water.

Peering down into the inky depths from one of Westmarch’ many docks, Rathma was reminded why he’d never lived by the open ocean. It was late in the day, and the choppy waves were nearly black without the sun to light them. Swimming was something that came naturally to him, and despite its shadowy look, it was not the water itself that concerned him. No, it was of course what lived in the water that was so off-putting. 

He knew better than most what sort of primordial creatures dwelled beneath the surface. Inarius and the other renegades had started with the oceans after all, before moving onto the land-based flora and fauna. There were things older than even he within Sanctuary’s oceans, and Rathma did not want to come face to face with any of them. 

Fortunately most of the bigger creations stayed away from the shores. Simply knowing they were out there was enough to dissuade the old nephalem from hanging around the waters any longer than he had to though. 

Instinct, wisdom, call it what you would. The oceans did not belong to anything mortal. 

Heavy boots clunked on the dock, pulling him out of his reverie, and he looked up to find Tyrael making his way towards him. The former-angel bore his armor once more, and there was a glow of magic about him. Rathma decided he should probably lecture him about the dangers of lightning and water again. The two really did not mix well. 

“Sense anything out there?” Tyrael asked, coming to a stop beside him. 

Tilting his head, Rathma mentally turned to the waters again. With whatever was wailing in the forests, and the knowledge of what sorts of things could be found far out, focussing on any one specific thing could be tricky for the nephalem. At least he knew he was looking for an island based threat, which narrowed the search. It was still unfortunately easy to become distracted. 

“There’s certainly something.” He offered after a moment. “Something old, dark, wet and probably treacherous.” A wave slapped angrily at the dock, and Rathma’s cloak fluttered indignantly. Tyrael raised a brow. 

“You don’t know what it is?” He carefully asked. 

“I have ideas of what it could be. This region was never mine to guard though, and its legends and myths are mostly unknown to me.” Rathma admitted. The west had always been Bul-Kathos’s to reign over. He and his descendants had long watched over the lands, up until the (relatively) recent migration of Rakkis and his kinfolk. Rathma’s expertise lay in the east, and that was short and long of it.   
  
Tyrael looked vaguely disappointed, his mouth pressing into a grim line. “Then we will be going in blind.” 

Shrugging, Rathma turned his back to the water, and his cloak drew itself tighter about him. His tail flicked agitatedly. “We have local legends, and what your scouts have reported. It's more than you’ve had to go off in the past.” 

A small laugh left the former angel, and he scrubbed a hand down his face. “I had senses beyond that of a mortal at that point.” He then gestured out into the gulf. “Whatever this is, it has been causing people to disappear, and we don’t even know if they’re alive-”

“They’re not.” Rathma’s voice was flat. Tyrael stared at him for a long moment, stricken. 

“I would sense a living mortal. There’s no one alive out there right now.” He clarified for the former-angel. Tyrael looked like he wanted to sit down, and Rathma wondered if he’d been too blunt. He sometimes forgot not everyone accepted it when others died - it’s not like anything could be done about it save honor their memory. 

A heavy sigh left him as Tyrael strode down to the very end of the dock. “We will have to inform the families then...and deal with this island swiftly.” 

Sensing the shift in Tyrael’s resolve, Rathma decided he would probably need to prepare a bigger arsenal to take with him. Bones might not cover this one, and failure to deal with the threat was not something they could accept. 

“You have a plan then?” He asked. Tyrael tilted his head, and turned back around to face his nephew. From the way he frowned, Rathma could guess the answer. 

“Part of one. I will need to finalize, and make preparations…” Winds blew suddenly, causing his cloak to flare and the waves to grow rougher. Salt and iron were on the air. 

“This could be bigger than we think. Bloodier.” Rathma bluntly spoke. “Make not a plan with haste. Plan carefully, and plan thoroughly.” Tyrael nodded, but he was not looking at the nephalem. His gaze was over the water once more, and filled with some trepidation. Rathma thought he looked more concerned about the waves than he should’ve…

“Can you swim?” He suddenly asked. Stared hard at his uncle. Didn’t miss the somewhat guilty look the former-angel threw him. Leaned back against his tail, threw a beseeching look into the skies. 

“I used to as an angel…” Tyrael offered. 

“But mortal bodies are different.” Rathma concluded. 

“There was never any time to learn. And I haven’t been this close to water without a ship before.” 

The look Rathma gave his uncle was wholly unimpressed, though slightly amused. “Well. We will simply have to fix that once this,” He threw a hand out at the night-black waters. “Is over and done with.” 

Honestly, it was a miracle Tyrael had made it this far as a mortal. Sanctuary was not exactly a place for one to blunder about. 

Tyrael laughed, open and honest, at that. “Yes, I suppose we will.” He then began heading back towards the shore. Rathma carefully followed after him - some of the planks of the dock were far enough apart that a hoof could slip through. Not a fun discovery, and not something he wanted to repeat. 

“Lorath might’ve dug up some legends about what’s out there.” Tyrael brought up as they went. “Unfortunately they leave a lot out, but Westmarch apparently had a history of these sorts of disappearances over the water…” 

“I would expect that of all port-cities.” Rathma replied mildly, still listening to the slap of water behind them. “Tell him to check through the barbarian’s histories, they lived here longer than this city has stood.” 

Tyrael nodded, and their conversation continued as they left the water’s edge. Behind them, the winds howled ominously, and the waves leapt up at the dock upon which they’d stood. 


	35. Dragon

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Rathma without a dragon just doesn't sit right.

“Really? You want to go by boat? You admittedly can’t even swim, and know that sailors go missing on these waters. And still, a boat?” Tyrael did not appreciate the way his nephew was staring at him. It was that look he always got whenever he couldn’t seem to decide if he thought Tyrael was joking or not. Typically it was followed by snarky commentary, and the occasional way-too-in-depth explanation of some biology fact or another.

“It’s not as though there is a faster, safer way.” The former angel primly retorted. “Or any other way.” Humans, unfortunately, were not naturally inclined towards flight. 

The two of them stood in the chilly courtyard of their commune. In warmer times there were several fountains that had bubbled merrily. Now they were little more than cold, lifeless statues. Around them, the grass had been long fried and singed from Tyrael work with magic. He had hoped to be able to simply transport himself where he needed to go, but Rathma had assured him in no uncertain terms that he was not ready.

“If there were, I’d happily go that route, as we both know the island is a most pressing issue. However...what are you laughing about?”

Indeed, the Nephalem was now chortling merrily to himself. He stared at Tyrael with his wicked red eyes, the horns framing his head glinting with power and magic. Were he not so dismayed by the particular expression on Rathma’s face, Tyrael would be more pleased by how far they had come from when the nephalem would’ve simply walked away from his presence. 

As it was, he recognized this expression as one that frequently led to some very...strange things indeed.

“Is there...another way?” He hesitantly asked. Rathma’s quick grin was almost feral. No doubt something just as feral up his sleeve.

“Not let’s see. Why would you sail across treacherous, eel-infested waters,…” He murmured, turning about and raising his hands. “When you can go by air?” He began whispering the strange language of Necromancy, and before Tyrael could further question just what the hell he was doing, bright arcs of magic shot from his finger-tips. 

The streams of energy met and coalesced in a myriad of twisting shapes and patterns. Tyrael could only watch, faintly impressed, and vaguely concerned. The courtyard was bathed in eerie white light as a glittering portal began to form. 

It flashed and threw sparks this way and that, and Rathma strained to get it under his control. His voice never wavered from a calm whisper, even as a nearby statue was reduced to dust. Tyrael debated diving for cover.

Then, as soon as the rift stabilized, something began to emerge from its depths. Rathma continued his chant, now growing louder as the...thing, made its entrance. Tyrael really thought he should dive for cover now, but something held him back.

A thin, pointy snout poked through, followed by a boney muzzle, and finally the rest of a horned skull. Tyrael let out an oath as more of the beast - a truly massive thing, it was becoming apparent - emerged. The vertebrae in its long neck were visible, among withered muscle and tendon and sinew. First one skeletal paw, then another stepped out. It crawled forward, its portal stretching and surging to allow it entryway from...wherever Rathma was summoning it from. 

The Nephalem’s face was drawn as he called the creature forth. It slunk over to him, head bowed before its master. Thick-muscled legs clawed at the ground, busting some tile where the talons touched down. A great pair of wings sewn from bone and shadow were folded against its back, and a long tail flopped against the stones, its tip savagely barbed. Rathma finished his chant, and the power faded.The portal winked out of existence.

After a moment of gasping for breath, The King of Necromancy held out a hand, and his beast eagerly nuzzled at his palm. It’s head was nearly as long as he was tall, and Tyrael was impressed it had managed to make its entrance without utterly destroying the courtyard. 

Rathma mumbled something, and the creature shifted its attention to Tyrael. 

All three simply stared at one another for a long, long moment. 

“What-?” Tyrael blurted, but didn’t know how to finish his sentence. 

“Dragon bones.” Rathma casually replied. “Very old, very powerful.” The lich-dragon nudged at the nephalem with shocking delicacy, spectral eyes never leaving Tyrael. Having been the Angel of Justice, he thought it might have been passing some judgement of its own.

“...Exactly how long have you...had access to this?” Tyrael crossed his arms, hoping he didn’t appear as nervous as he felt. He had never before encountered a dragon, dead or alive, though he’d heard tales of them. 

“I found Syr’Val’s remains shortly before the founding of the Triune. The original, not the one Belial took control of.” Rathma affectionately ran a hand over his creation’s teeth, and it made a loud grating noise that Tyrael thought might’ve been a purr. 

“And only now you make use of them?” He couldn’t help the testiness in his voice. Had Rathma really had such power all this time? The power to command such creatures as this… 

Rathma simply shrugged however, either unnoticing or uncaring of his uncle’s consternation. “There hasn’t been a time to use them until now. I know your thoughts - I could not have used them against Malthael.” Finally, the nephalem stepped away from Syr’Val, and looked the beast over critically. “One who knows the ways of the balance, one who is powerful enough, can rest control of another necromancer’s minions away from them. I could not risk giving the Angel of Death access to a dragon.” 

Turning, Rathma favored his uncle with a flat look. “I did not know Malthael’s limits, or his specific abilities. Trust me when I say, just one of these,” He gestured at his lich. “Could’ve turned the tide against us easily.” 

“And against Vidian?” Tyrael asked evenly. Rathma simply frowned at him.

“He required a more delicate approach.” Was all he said, eyes narrowed. Tyrael sighed, arms uncrossing. He looked over the boney dragon-thing, and it regarded him in turn. 

“I would like, in the future, for you to let me know you have access to such things.” Tyrael carefully said. “Or even that they exist. If you can raise a dragon from the dead, it is not too far of a leap to say others could too.” 

The nephalem scrunched up his nose at him, and Tyrael shook his head. 

“Very well. We will go to Greyhollow Island on the back of a dragon.” And hopefully, whatever evil lurked there could be dealt with quickly and easily. 

“A dead dragon.” Rathma corrected, looking very pleased with the whole situation. 

Tyrael sighed, and looked up at Syr’Val. “Yes. On the back of a dead dragon.” 


	36. Advance

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> They may be flying headlong into uncharted waters, but at least they were flying.

In the morning sun, the Golf of Westmarch didn’t look quite as unnerving as it had several nights ago. Tyrael found it to be rather beautiful even. It was a light steel-blue, with bright arcs of aquamarine where the waves crested. It reminded him very much of the Pools of Wisdom - although, breath-taking as those had been, thinking of them still made something in him shudder. 

He didn’t think he’d ever understand how Malthael could stand to stare into that Chalice for so long. Its wondrous effects had been so...consuming. Sometimes, Tyrael wondered if that had been what drove him to madness, and not the mortal souls. Or perhaps, a combination of the two. 

There was little time to dwell on thoughts of Wisdom and Chalices though. This morning, he and Rathm would be flying out to Greyhollow island.

The Horadrim would not be accompanying them, per a loud argument during which Rathma had insisted that whatever they were facing was too dangerous. It was not often that the former aspect of Justice itself lost an argument. Perhaps his nephew had more angel in him than he’d thought, or perhaps he simply had a point. Lorath had not been pleased, but he and his fellows had seen the logic of the argument. If they all went, and it was too much...if they all went, and they all died, no one would be there to carry on their work, and get someone who could take care of the island. They had to stay behind.

Tyrael had suited up in his angelic armor once more, its weight familiar and comforting. He was perhaps more excited for this venture then he should have been, for it had been a long while since he’d had a chance to really use his blad. Down time was nonexistent in the Heavens. Angels were constantly fighting, constantly preparing for war, Tyrael included. Readying himself to face this new threat was something he (perhaps foolishly) welcomed. 

After checking over his armor one last time, the former angel glanced back at his nephew. Rathma bore armor of his own.

Segmented plates elegantly mimicked a ribcage, forming his breastplate. The design allowed for unrestricted movement, but still kept him protected. The pattern was mimicked in the bracers, and the leg-plates. Looking his nephew over, Tyrael found he was satisfied that the nephalem was well-protected. He did find it odd that his hands and hooves went unclad, but he supposed those were the parts of his body Rathma was most likely to shift, if needed. Completing the look was his cloak, waving lazily in the breeze, and the dim-red horns that framed his head. 

Standing beside Syr’Val’s boney snout, he looked every bit the commander of the risen dead he really was. Tyrael had seen the ornate armors those of his order typically bore, but Rathma’s were something on a completely different level. Looking closely at the ivory-and-bone, Tyrael suspected it had been crafted by an original nephalem smith, and later outfitted to suit its wearer’s needs. 

Waves splashed noisily, and the lich-dragon let out a low “Wyyrrrfff.” Noise. Rathma mumbled something to it, and rubbed at its mandible. After a moment, he looked back over his shoulder to Tyrael. 

“Shall we depart?” 

His armor was secured, and there was a magical crackle about him. He could feel El’Druin’s comforting presence, ready to be summoned if needed. Tyrael nodded. 

A corner of Rathma’s mouth quirked up, and he turned without a word to grab hold of a spike jutting from Syr’Val’s neck. The lich did the rest, swinging its master up onto it’s back. Tyrael watched, vaguely impressed, and somewhat unsure of how he was supposed to repeat such an act. 

No need it turned out. As he approached, one of the beast’s claws delicately plucked him up front the ground. Tyrael let out a shout as he was hoisted up, up onto the space between its wings. 

Waiting for him was Rathma, who watched without expression. Tyrael knew him well enough to know the nephalem was laughing internally. Deciding to be very mature about the whole thing, Tyrael stuck his tongue out. 

“Make yourself comfortable- and I advise that you hold onto something.” The nephalem cheerfully offered, before turning to face the water’s edge. Syr’Val let out a rumbling growl beneath them, and Tyrael found a particularly large pair of spikes to grip. He marvelled at the way Rathma stood upright, but he supposed the nephalem was for more dexterous than he - and probably used to perching atop his beasts. 

Rathma hissed something in a serpentine tongue that was different from any language Tyrael had heard him use before. There was no time for comment or even thought as the undead dragon let out a below, wings spreading wide. It heaved itself skyward with a single flap of spectral wings, soaring up, up above the Gulf of Westmarch far quicker than Tyrael had thought possible. 

All worries about the island, about the Horadrim, about anything at all fled him. 

Tyrael may have had the body of a human, but he would always have the soul of an angel. And there were few places an angel would rather be than soaring up through the sky. Closing his eyes, he felt a weight upon his shoulders dissipate. He hadn’t realized how much he...missed this. Flying. Being utterly free. 

True, Syr’Val’s wings were not his own, and he had little control over where they were headed, but the wind was in his face and whistling in his ears. Gravity had been forced to remove its iron claws from him. They could’ve been flying into the maws of Hell itself for all he cared right now. 

The sky was home. For the briefest of moments, Tyrael was home. 

When he finally opened his eyes, Tyrael had no idea how much time had passed. Rathma was looking back at him curiously, and he looked away, embarrassed. He hadn’t meant to get so lost in sensation...

The sea heaved beneath them, a reminder of their true goal here. Above, a storm brewed, hissing and stirring with power. 

Tyrael stowed himself; they had a job to do. The sky would be here for him when they were done. 


	37. Island

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> They've made it to Greyhollow, and someone is there to meet them.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Minor character death warning.

Greyhollow Island appeared to be aptly named. It was cold and dreary, with a seemingly constant drizzle, and the crashing of waves against the jagged rocks that made up its shores. Wreckages made the foreboding coastline that much more menacing. 

“No wonder so many boats go missing!” Tyrael shouting over the howling wind. “They’re here, smashed across the rocks!” The remnants of them could easily be picked out among the rock, for they were the only things that did not appear to have been sapped of all color. 

Rathma’s tail snapped once, a clear sign that he had heard. The nephalem was preoccupied searching for a spot to land. Murmuring to Syr’Val, he took them into a low circle about the island. It was not encouraging; jagged trees, sharp rock, and...he thought he could see movement down below, although the rain made it difficult to really tell. Reaching out with his senses, he could feel the warmth of life, though it was a strange, unearthly life. 

They flew on, and suddenly the remnants of civilization began to come into view. Old, dilapidated bridges connected parts of the island. While they were seemingly clear of too much debris, he doubted they could hold the dragon’s weight. As he scanned, something else stood out, jutting above the rest of the island; a massive monolith, reaching into the sky as though trying to escape its wretched home. 

“There were people here…” Rathma mumbled to himself. But who? And when? Something about the tower put him on edge, and made his skin crawl. The architecture was familiar. Too familiar for comfort. 

Whatever was here may have been much older, and much more powerful than he’d anticipated. 

“Look there! What’s that glow?” Tyrael was hollering, and Rathma turned to look where he pointed. Something gleamed an arcane blue through the trees. 

_“Va cirlé.”_ He murmured, and Syr’Val let out a growl as it turned to glide towards the glow. 

“Is that...a waypoint?” Tyrael asked, incredulous. It was a pleasant surprise, but a surprise nonetheless. Rathma was much distracted by something else down beside the waypoint. 

_“Syr’Val, dać!_ ” The beast obeyed it’s master’s command, and down down to land in the slight clearing. His claws crushed branches and dug gouges into the mud when he landed. The trees almost seemed to hiss, and the winds grew harsher, at the sudden uninvited presence upon the island. 

Rathma wasted no time hauling himself down, leaving Tyrael to sputter and scramble after him. He paid his uncle no mind, far more concerned with the dying man who lay before them. 

Kneeling before the man, the nephalem placed a gentle hand on one frigid shoulder. Looking him over, Rathma’s mouth pressed into a grim line; there was too much blood. He could not save this man. At the least, he would be able to send his soul on it’s way. 

The man stirred, awoken by the touch. Glazed eyes stared up at the King of Necromancy, and they turned pleading. Rathma gently cupped his cheek, and held his gaze. 

“I did not believe the legends—all true!” He suddenly gasped, blood on his lips. “This island, it rots you from within. We never should have come here..." A cough wracked his frame, and one hand feebly grasped for the nephalem before him. Rathma caught the hand, held it as he died. 

“My crew- we thought! We thought…” There were tears in his eyes, and despite his growing weakness he pressed on. “We thought, and we came, and we died...all dead… all gone.” 

Suddenly, he looked up at Rathma, alarmed clarity on his face. “You’re not- you’re no human… you’ve- I can feel my death coming!” His voiced cracked, and tears flowed freely now. “I I can see what you are...maybe you can kill him. Maybe you can do it. Please.” His hand convulsed around Rathma’s. “I couldn’t end him, much as I- ...much as I tried. Maybe you can.” 

Rathma held him as he died, and felt his soul beginning to depart. He mumbled a few words of comfort, to encourage the soul on it’s way. The relief of death was palpable, and he let it fill him with resolve. 

Tyrael stood behind him, watching, silent and concerned. Watched as Rathma stood, and instructed Syr’Val to take the body, keep it safe for return to Westmarch. His face was devoid of any emotion, save a bit of grim determination. 

“Something killed this man.” He spoke evenly to his uncle. “Now we must kill it.” 


	38. Learn

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Exploring a cursed island is not all fun and games.

They slogged along through the forests of Greyhollow. Tyrael wondered how anyone could’ve stood to build a society here; everything was just soaked. Anything made from wood no doubt became water-logged, and rotted quickly. Assembly would’ve been miserable… It honestly made perfect sense to him that there was no one here any longer. Not to mention the aggressive wildlife. 

At no point could he ever remember the Heavens proper being half as dangerous as any one land of Sanctuary. The world was rich in life of many kinds, and much of that life wanted to kill you. He supposed that was simply the natural order of the world, but it still came off as disconcerting to him.

Just how did anyone ever have time to build up a society when they had to fight for their lives every day? Sure, towns and cities were relatively safe, but they had to have been built before they could be defended. 

Perhaps he’d ask Rathma once they were done with this particular escapade. The nephalem seemed quite preoccupied currently, or he’d have asked right here and now. 

Being the more agile of the two, Rathma was exploring seemingly every inch of the place. He’d scale trees, scramble down into caves, and more often than not come running back, fleeing everything from wolves to angry trees, to a giant crab-looking thing. Everything on the island was just...so violent. Had it always been so violent? This just hammered home Tyrael’s opinion that Sanctuary was an overly dangerous place, and it was a miracle that clumsy, soft little humans had not been taken out by one natural threat or another.

The way Rathma searched was starting to border on frantic. Tyrael did not like the way the island seemed to already be having an odd influence on him. Or perhaps, the dying man had. 

Already they’d found the remains of what could’ve been some of his crew-mates, and the remnants of a journal. And that journal was a sad horror story unto itself. 

A crew, shipwrecked, trying to survive and being culled by the very land they walked upon. Or, perhaps, the man that seemingly never died. Perhaps he was what had Rathma so out of sorts. 

“Have you ever encountered a man who cannot die?” Tyrael asked as he poked along after his companion. Metal boots, it was becoming clear, were not the right sort of footwear for this terrain. He had nearly faceplanted three times already.

The question at least got Rathma to slow down and circle closer to his uncle. “Aside from myself? No.” He looked thoughtful though, as they began to walk at a more sedate pace. 

“You...cannot die?” Tyrael stared at the nephalem, incredulous.

“This body can expire.” Rathma corrected. “But my soul will sustain itself long enough to find another vessel to inhabit.” 

“...Vessel?” The former angel was very unsure about how to feel about this particular revelation. He found himself abruptly unconcerned with the wild-life and island all together. Was Rathma...already dead?

The nephalem simply shrugged. “I grew them myself, and they’re more or less identical to this one.” He gestured at himself, and then hopped up onto a platform they’d come to.

“It’s actually a very simple matter to make a fully-operational cellular replica with the right DNA, light-sparks, egg-cells and growing conditions...clones Tyrael.” He finally clarified, sensing his uncle had no idea what he was talking about. “I made clones of my body to inhabit in case of complete system failure.”

After a moment of hesitation, Tyrael grabbed the offered hand and let the necromancer pull him up onto the platform. A platform which turned out to be a bridge over the raging sea…

“Is this a good idea?” He asked, eyeing the sodden planks doubtfully. “So you have...replicas of yourself just waiting around? In case you need them?” 

Rathma eyeballed the bridge, and shrugged, before prowling onward. “Yes. My line of work wasn’t exactly without risk, and for a very long time there was no one to continue if I died permanently.” 

“You don’t suppose this killer-”

The conversation was cut abruptly short when something smashed into the bridge behind them. Yelling, Tyrael leapt away and summoned El’Druin. He heard Rathma shout something over the rain from wherever he’d disappeared to. 

A great serpentine beast had reared up out of the water, gurgling and snarling. When Tyrael brought up his blade, its Heavenly glow illuminated the thing he realized it was not a true serpent, but rather a creature made from the water itself. It shuddered and heaved, and from the beast’s ‘belly’ a dozen smaller creatures were vomited onto the bridge. Letting out an oath, Tyrael swiped El’Druin in a great arc for the first of the spiny little monsters, slicing off several legs. 

Spears of bone lanced past him, impaling more of the creatures, and Tyrael heard Rathma yelling something that could’ve been a spell or a curse, or perhaps both. Tuning out the rushing of the water below, and his nephew’s shouts, Tyrael dove into battle with the rest of the creatures.

They had an unfortunate fondness for trying to bite his limbs off, he discovered. Fortunately, they were quite susceptible to being impaled. He and Rathma battled seamlessly together, Tyrael keeping the creature’s attention, and Rathma picking them off with magic. 

It felt as though half of this battle was simply struggling to stay on his feat. The wood was no better for traction than the island mud had been, and Tyrael’s greaves were alarmingly slippery. Add in the constant rain and crash of waves, and what should have been a simple matter of slaying a few small foes took far longer than he would’ve liked. 

Finally though, they’d managed to slay them all. 

Gasping for breath, Tyrael turned and found Rathma beside him, eyeballing a few carcasses. 

“Perhaps we should get off the bridge?” The former angel suggested. His companion nodded, but crouched down beside one of the slain beasts. As Tyrael watched impatiently, he pulled a few spikes from its armored shell. 

“Souvenir.” Was all the nephalem said when he stood, and began heading on again. With a long suffering sigh, Tyrael clambered after him. 

He couldn’t remember the last time he’d been this happy to get off of a bridge, even if they only moved onto another portion of cursed island. At least they weren’t in the open water. 

“You were saying?” Rathma suddenly spoke up. 

“Huh?”

“About the killer. Before the attack. What were you saying?”

“Oh. You don’t suppose it’s doing the same as you? Cloning itself, over and over?” Tyrael asked, and shivered. Blame it on being cold and wet. Certainly not because of how much Rathma...concerned him sometimes. 

“I don’t. It’s not an art I’ve found replicated anywhere else.” Rathma returned as they began to walk again. “And the conditions in this place would not support such an endeavor.” 

“Then, how do you suppose a man evades death?” 

Rathma’s face is grim. “Something wants him alive. Something powerful.” He hesitated, and glanced around at the woods around them. “Dare I say, something demonic.” 


	39. Fracture

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> He couldn't know or save everyone. That didn't stop him from being grumpy about it. The broken arm wasn't helping things either.

An inhuman screech tore through the air. Tyrael all but threw himself towards the sound, El’Druin gleaming angrily in his grip. Another shriek, this one demonic, rang out. 

When he spotted Rathma, Blood-soaked and bone-wielding, Tyrael did not waste time leaping into the fray beside him. The demoness he battled with hissed in impotent rage, lashing out with claw and tail and hellish magic. Rathma countered with his own spells, and Tyrael parried effortlessly with his blade. They fell into the rhythm of battle, and soon it became clear that the demoness could not stand long against them. 

They knew it, and she knew it too. WIth a mighty shout of power, she flung all her fury and magic at them. Tyrael gasped, raising El’Druin, but found no shield was necessary as a veritable bulwark of bone shot up before him. The demonic spell crashed against it, thudding and thundering, but the wall held. 

And then it was over, The demoness fled into the ragged sea, and Rathma dismissed his own spellwork. Rain cascaded around them, the skies utterly uncaring about their battle. 

Tyrael looked about for a clue as to their next move. They had not anticipated finding such a powerful demon here. Well, they hadn’t known _what_ they would find, but the lull in action had left Tyrael feeling too sure of himself. He’d foolishly assumed they were prepared for anything the island could throw at them. 

He should have remembered how much trouble Vidian had given them. Had given _Rathma_. 

Rathma let out a sudden hiss of pain. 

“We should get out of this rain.” Tyrael decided, looking around for somewhere they could possibly go. But Rathma wasn’t moving to assist. In fact, he was staring, sour-faced, at his arm. His arm, that was bent at a decidedly... _abnormal_ angle. 

“Oh. Oh no…” Reaching as if to touch, Tyrael immediately backpedaled when his companion snarled at his fingers. “Is it broken?” He asked instead. 

Gingerly, the nephalem felt along his arm. There was a unique mix of pain, anger, dismay and annoyance on his face when he got to where the arm was bent wrong. 

“Fractured.” Rathma’s voice was very flat. 

Tyrael let out a concerned his. “Then, we cannot remain here.”

Rathma’s gaze and voice were sharp. “I can fight one-handed.” 

“And have a glaring weak point in your defenses.” Tyrael sternly countered. Then his voice softened. “...It is unlike you to want to do battle like this.”

The constant rains grew awfully loud then. Under Tyrael’s scrutinous gaze, the ancient nephalem drew in a breath, and let it out slowly, before gazing wearily around. There was something terribly sad in the way he looked. 

“There were people here Tyrael.” He said slowly, voice far away. “An entire civilization. Their souls are… they’re still here. They’re _furious_ , you see.” 

And the angel _did_ look around, almost as though searching for these hapless specter’s his nephew alone could hear. He could feel the raw emotion in this place of course. 

“She destroyed them.” Rathma growled. “Slowly, from the inside out. Their pain is etched upon this land, their sorrow and fury. Even the wicker man, damned may he be, cries for release.” 

This time, Rathma did not snarl when Tyrael placed a comforting hand on his shoulder. 

“Did you know them?” He asked. 

“No.” And there was a terrible bitterness in that response. “But I will. Once we’re rid of the demon, putting their souls to rest will take time…” 

A heavy sigh left both angel and nephalem. 

“You cannot face her like this. Not again.” Tyrael gestured widely. “We will go back to the mainland, and return better prepared. Where’s that wyvern of yours?”

Rathma stared, a little numb, as Tyrael began searching the skies despite the rain. Dutifully, he put out the call to Syr’Val, and felt the beast’s approach. Yes, they would return. And if he had his way, Nereza would be sent back to the realm from whence she came in a smoldering heap.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ¯\\_(ツ)_/¯ ¯\\_(ツ)_/¯ ¯\\_(ツ)_/¯  
> I'm back I guess.


	40. Crash

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Getting off the island does not go as planned.

Everything was blurry-fuzzy-unfocussed. Somewhere in the back of his mind, Tyrael was aware that this was not how things should be. That thought went quick as it came. 

The world muddled on around him. It was wet-cold, but Tyrael felt strangely hot. Things kept flashing around him, lighting up magnificently and winking out again. He thought there might’ve been someone shouting. Someone red, he could tell that much. 

He hoped whatever they were shouting about wasn’t too serious. 

* * *

Tyrael hadn’t realized he’d passed out until he woke up again. Even then, he wasn’t entirely sure what was happening. 

It was much colder now, windier too, and he shuddered before trying to curl in on himself. Someone spoke lowly [at him], and he had to assume it was that same someone who held him tighter with one arm. Thankfully so, for the world kept heaving in a way that was distinctly unpleasant. 

“Sleep again, I will make sure you wake.” The someone murmured (at least, he thought that was what they said.) 

He was aware enough of himself to know that the unconsciousness descending upon him was of external make. There was nothing he could do about it though.

* * *

The next time he awoke, Tyrael was much more himself. Barely had his eyes opened before he threw himself up with a yell, and El’Druin was in his hand - and promptly dropped to the floor. Someone made a noise in alarm, and reached to restrain them. 

The former-angel was already settling though. He stared, dumb-founded, and the bandaged on his arm. An arm that refused to move. Actually, a whole shoulder. Actually-

“By the light Tyrael, I bid you lay down.” 

Tyrael did not lay down. Tyrael very nearly jumped out of his skin, and turned to face the speaker as she floated closer.

In response, Auriel silently wrapped her cord about his shoulders. 

“You-” a mighty cough escaped him. “You are- here?” The words were rough and confused, even as he finally began to relax back down onto the cot he was laid out upon. 

“You can thank your deathly companion for that.” Gentle yet firm, the Archangel of Hope began checking his - many many - bandages. Including one wrapped about his head. 

“...Where is here?” Tyrael belatedly realized he did not recognize the building. They were not in the commune, as he had originally thought. Certainly not back on the island. 

“Your companion thought you would ask that.” Auriel nodded calmly. “He said to tell you this place is owned, isolated, and safe. I believe he did not want my presence to be...noticed, by the masses.” 

Of course. Angels upon Sanctuary once more would cause nothing less than a confused panic. Rathma would know this, if he had indeed been the one to contact Auriel. Exactly how he’d managed to contact her...Tyrael had no idea. Never mind where his nephew even was. 

“Do not strain yourself, my friend.” Finishing her work, Auriel floated up and away from him. Her radiance filled the cozy room they were in, and Tyrael desperately took it in. 

“Where is-” Another bout of coughing wracked his frame, cutting him off. 

“I imagine he will return soon.” Auriel’s voice was deliberately soothing. “Where he was going, he did not say in absolutes. He did take Imperius along with him, and I might hazard that they are taking care of whatever caused this.” She gestured at him, and Tyrael felt very small for a moment. 

“Wait.” Then what she’d said caught up to him. “Imperius? On Sanctuary?” 

“Your companion seemed quite certain he needed the assistance, and instructed that I tell you such.” Auriel’s wings flicked contentedly. 

“...Oh stars.” Tyrael groaned, and laid back down.

“Yes, I advise rest as well.” Auriel agreed. 


End file.
